


The Horcrux Hunter's Account of the Multiverse

by TheCompletionist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, But more like PA to Death, Crack Treated Seriously, Dimension Travel, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Humor, Immortal Harry Potter, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Oblivious Harry Potter, Possessive Tom Riddle, Time Travel, seriously there's a lot of them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25428928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCompletionist/pseuds/TheCompletionist
Summary: After having lived a long and fulfilling life, Harry Potter dies…only to wake up in ‘the Void’, face to face with Death itself. As luck would have it, fate wasn't quite done with him just yet. Now, tasked with saving the multiverse from an untimely demise, Harry must travel from dimension to dimension in hopes of gathering Tom Riddle’s scattered soul.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 539





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death, as it turns out, isn't as great as Dumbledore made it out to be.

“HARRY! WHAT DID YOU DO!?”

Riddle’s holler echoed through the Wrathful Woods, likely attracting the attention of every being that could cause them an untimely death. But it wasn’t as if their situation could get any worse, so Harry refrained from complaining.

Still, he wasn’t shouldering all the blame. _At least_ a fifth of it was Riddle’s.

“I told you not to call me that!” Harry yelled back, throwing himself over a shrub and barely dodging the razor-sharp pincer of an acromantula. “What did _I_ do? I should be asking the same of you!”

“Shit! Fucking hell!” Riddle swore. Which, frankly, was shocking enough that it caused Harry to stumble. He righted himself quickly, but not quickly enough to avoid a cut to his robes. “This is all your fault!”

“Language!” Harry said instinctively, but there was no heat behind his words.

An arrow flew past, inches from his cheek, and embedded itself deeply into a nearby tree branch.

“Damn you, Harry!” Riddle, as per usual, completely ignored him. “We’re both going to die!”

Harry didn’t correct him. Briefly, he wondered when everything had begun to go downhill.

* * *

_A Few Months Ago…_

Harry woke with a start.

Things were already taking a turn for the worst; he was supposed to be _dead_ , and the dead weren't supposed to _wake_.

He remembered it all too clearly. His century-and-a-half long life after the defeat of Voldemort had been exciting at first, during the height of his Auror career, before dipping to something more relaxed and domestic once his children were grown.

He remembered the smile on his great-grandchildren’s faces when they spoke of their own time at Hogwarts. He remembered Ginny’s exasperated smile that never really changed over the course of their marriage. Despite the up and downs, they remained together until the very end.

Ginny’s passing had been two decades before his own.

He had forced himself to continue _living_ , having known full well that her death was harder for his children and grandchildren to accept than it was for him. He had learned to come to peace with death, though that didn’t mean he was entirely unaffected by it. The day had been one of the darkest in his life–it still was, albeit the pain of losing his best friend had dulled since then.

Which brought him to his current predicament.

Where in Godric’s name was he?

A part of him expected to see the tear-stained face of one of his descendants; surely, the resurrection stone was the only possible explanation.

But that couldn’t be.

He himself had hunted down the Gaunt ring in the Forbidden Forest decades after the defeat of Voldemort and saw to it that it was lost, _for good_.

 ** _Harry James Potter_**.

The whisper was simultaneously soft and deafening. There was a wispy, resonant quality to it that reminded Harry of the Horcruxes he once had to destroy.

Harry froze, senses on full alert.

 ** _Harry Potter…the Boy Who Lived_**. Harry would deem the tone wry had it not been strangely flat, empty of all emotions. **_The Boy Who Died_**.

“What is this? Where am I?”

There was no reply.

“Is this the afterlife?” Harry tried again, and that apparently was enough to invoke a reaction.

 ** _The ‘afterlife’…that’s fitting, I suppose_**.

Harry waited, but when the voice gave no further elaboration, he heaved a frustrated sigh. “So, is this it? Just darkness, for all of eternity? No burning embers of hell? No angels and harps atop white clouds? No more white platforms and long-winded speeches about self-sacrifice?”

It felt…anticlimactic.

“And after all I’ve done,” he muttered.

 ** _You won’t be here for very long_** , the voice sounded amused now, despite its tone remaining as hollow as before. **_Think of this as an in-between. You still have a job to do_**.

“A job?” Harry echoed incredulously. “Are you shitting me? I already defeated Voldemort, saved Wizarding Britain _twice_ , fulfilled a few prophecies. Can’t I catch a bloody break?”

 ** _There’s still clean-up duty to be done_**.

“Clean up duty? Are you mad?”

It probably wasn’t a great idea to be insulting Death itself, or God, or whatever spiritual entity the echoing voice was.

But he was tired, retired, and _dead_.

One lifetime of being led around by the nose and moulded to be the perfect prophesied saviour was already one life too many. There wasn’t much that he feared at that point.

 ** _Horcruxes are tedious, meddlesome things. One is bad enough. Seven is a nightmare_**.

Harry felt the onset of a terrible migraine. Apparently, Tom Marvolo Riddle— _damn the man_ —was adamant to plague Harry’s life, even in death. Or plague his death. Undeath. Whichever.

“Aren’t you Death?” Harry questioned. “Why don’t you _‘clean up’_ yourself?”

 ** _It’s…complicated. I’ll explain when we get there_**.

“Get where?” Harry demanded, feeling the familiar tug of Apparation hook in the pit of his stomach. A delayed sense of panic rose within him. “Where are we going? What’s going on? What do you mean by-”

His voice cut off as he felt himself being pulled along, squeezed between a too-small tube before being thrown into a full blast of white light.

* * *

Harry opened his eyes to the much-younger face of one Walburga Black, and let out a blood-curdling scream that could probably give Moaning Myrtle a run for her galleon.

To her credit, young Walburga Black didn’t so much as bat an eye. Quite the contrary, in fact. She leaned in, placed a hand on his cheek, and the shock of it all was enough to kill the scream in his throat.

He stared back at her, wide-eyed.

“Haemon, dear,” She cooed, “Don’t fret, now. It’s just Aunt ‘Burga.”

Harry choked on air.

He threw himself backwards, which wasn’t the smartest move, considering the next thing he knew was a blinding pain in the back of his head.

* * *

**_Harry Potter, please refrain from future suicide attempts in any of the host bodies_**.

Harry let out a shaky exhale. He was back in that dark, senseless space, and a part of him mourned the loss of real sensations, again.

But no—that wasn’t reality. It couldn’t possibly be. Walburga Black wasn’t so young, so alive, nor so… _normal_.

More importantly, Walburga Black would never call herself his—Harry suppressed a shudder— _Aunt ‘Burga_.

“Am I dead?” he asked, “Again?”

 ** _No. Luckily, the force of the impact was only enough to knock you out_**.

Harry took a deep breath.

“Explain.”

 ** _The current host body is named Haemon Blacke. Age 16. Third in line heir-to-be of the Revered House of Blacke, and son of the deceased Lilina and Jameson Blacke_**.

“…Right. But that isn’t what I’m asking. What in Merlin’s name am I doing here? And where is exactly is ‘here’, anyway?”

When the voice gave no answer, Harry scowled. “What did you mean by cleaning up? Come on, you can’t send me into this blind. If you want my help, you can’t pull a Dumbledore on me.”

For a beat, Harry thought that the being wasn’t going to answer. Then…

 ** _Fine_**.

Harry waited with bated breath, trying not to think of the convoluted reality he had been so unceremoniously thrust into.

 ** _When Tom Marvolo Riddle made his final Horcrux_** — the ‘ _you_ ’ went unsaid— ** _his soul was already as unstable as a soul could become without entirely dispersing. But the connection between each individual piece has been weakened to the point of being inexistent_**.

A pause.

**_But a soul cannot disperse when even a shard of it remains tethered to the world. So, even when the vessels of Horcruxes are annihilated, the soul will still linger within the world until every piece is destroyed. The strong connection between the individual soul shards ensures that all the pieces remain within this dimension. Besides, even when broken, the pieces of a soul are too large to slip between dimensions._ **

“No, no, no,” Harry breathed, beginning to see where this was headed. His temples had begun to throb, and he felt moments away from an aneurysm.

 ** _This is fail-proof, and the only reason I have allowed the creation of the vile things thus far. Tom Marvolo Riddle accomplished what no one before him was foolish, insane, nor ingenious enough to do_**.

Another pause.

 **_He broke his soul into no less than_ ** **eight _pieces. When his Horcruxes were destroyed one by one, the connection between each piece was not enough to stitch them together. Instead, they shattered further into splinters. Splinters small enough to slip through the web that separates the worlds._**

 _This can't be happening_ , Harry thought desperately.

It must be a nightmare, a delusion of some sort. Maybe he'd finally gone mad; about time, with all he'd been forced to live through.

 ** _They’ve found roots in universes that are similar enough to your original one—as the other dimensions’ counterparts of the man you know as Tom Riddle_**.

There was a sudden flicker of light and his breath hitched; the glowing orbs pulsed, before spreading in a web-like design before him. Each shining dot was connected to another through a thin strand of light, reminding Harry of the constellation map from the Black Ancestral Home.

 ** _In this sense, he’s achieved a twisted form of immortality. When the physical bodies of his soul shards die, his soul will still continue to exist, since other pieces remain intact in other dimensions. The bodiless soul shard will then slip through space and time and corrupt another world_**.

Harry attempted to speak, but no words came out. What he was hearing…it frankly sounded insane. It sounded _impossible_.

Yet, it also seemed exactly like the sort of impossibility for Tom Riddle to achieve against all odds. As time had proven again and again, the laws of magic simply didn’t apply when it came to him.

 ** _His presence is causing alternate timelines to form. It’s beginning to take its toll on the world—multiple worlds, in fact. That’s where you come in_**.

“Me?” Harry repeated. “No, no—you can’t make me live another dozen lifetimes with _him-_ ”

 ** _You don’t have to stay after you complete the mission. If you’re quick enough, you shouldn’t have to spend more than a decade in each dimension_**.

Harry’s eye twitched.

“Why can’t you just do it yourself?” he questioned. It was the same question he wished he had asked Dumbledore before he died.

Why Harry?

What made him so special that all of these tedious tasks had to be delegated to him? The prophecy had chosen him, Voldemort had marked him, Dumbledore had used him, and now, even Death was setting its sights on him.

Harry would be flattered if it wasn’t so damned irritating.

 ** _Tom Riddle’s influence on these worlds is already upsetting their stability. If I attempt to interfere, I’m afraid these universes may collapse. Furthermore, I cannot touch his soul while parts of it still occupy a life source in any world. To ‘do it myself’, as you’ve so eloquently put it, I will have to annihilate over a dozen worlds, killing all the inhabitants_**.

Harry tried to process the thought, the sheer magnitude of the consequences that could arise should he say ‘no’. Yet the only thing that comes to mind was-

“…so you’re sending me on an inter-dimensional Horcrux scavenger hunt?”

The awkward moment of silence said more than enough.

 ** _…Yes_**.

At least the entity had the grace to sound _embarrassed_.

“Why is it always me?” Harry bemoaned. “Why can’t someone else deal with the bastard for once?”

 ** _I’m afraid you can’t know the answer to that question yet. Good luck, Harry Potter_**.

“Wait, what are you saying? There’s an actual answer? Wait, no…I haven’t agreed yet! What do I have to do? Tell me that, at least! How do I collect the Horcruxes? Wait!”

His enquiries were unanswered. He barely had time to register the panic setting in before a heaviness pulled him under, and the network of star-like lights flickered out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, welcome, and enjoy the ride.
> 
> There'll be regular updates since the first arc is technically completed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets some old (new?) friends and learns about his new world.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid visiting hours are over.”

“I’m sorry, _ma’am_ , but _I’m_ the one who decides when I leave.”

Harry blinked groggily. The first thing that came within sight was a head of platinum blonde hair that could only belong to one family. He made a gurgled noise in his throat, and then Draco turned around.

Oh. Never mind.

Harry stared back openly at the face that shared the same angular chin and high cheekbones as his once-nemesis.

Yet, the boy’s features were sharper somehow, with deep-set eyes that were several shades colder than Draco’s had been and less petulant haughtiness to his expression.

Not-Draco broke out into a genuine smile as their eyes met.

“Haemon! Thank Salazar, we all thought you’d put yourself in a coma! How are you feeling?”

Harry wasn’t sure what to say, but that turned out to not be a problem, since the other boy seemed content to talk enough for both of them.

“Have you heard what they’re calling you now? The _Boy-Who-Lived_ , it’s got quite the dramatic ring, hasn’t it? I was just reading the Prophet this morning, and you’ll never guess-”

Suddenly, the boy was pulled aside by a middle-aged woman in a standard St. Mungo’s lime-green robe.

“Mr Malfoy. A moment please.”

Not-Draco reluctantly followed the healer out of the room.

Harry took the time to observe his surroundings. He was lying back in a large bed with white sheets, silk drapes, and duvet. The walls were a pale cream and a light grey carpet spanned the floor. Harry recognized it as one of St. Mungo’s private rooms for those in intensive care, having stayed there once during his Auror career. It was the best they have, a fact that was reflected in its absurdly high fee.

Just then, the door swung open once more and the woman returned, tailed by a shaken Malfoy.

“Mr Blacke,” she intoned. A quill and a clipboard hovered behind her, taking note of her words. “I am the mediwitch assigned to your case. You may address me as Healer Abbott.”

 _Abbott_ ?

Harry’s eyes widened as the similarities set in.

Seeing his dazed stare, Healer Abbott’s brows furrowed. “What is the last thing that you remember, Mr Blacke?”

Harry uncomprehendingly looked back towards the mediwitch, but at her insistent stare, he shut his eyes. When he tried to recall the memories of the original Haemon, however, a sharp jolt of pain throbbed through his mind. He exhaled as blurry images flickered past his mind, too fast for him to retain.

“I-” He blinked as the pain receded. “I don’t think I can-”

“Ah.” Healer Abbott nodded solemnly. “As I’ve expected. A case of trauma-induced memory loss. I will have to continue with some preliminary check-ups. Let me know if you begin to experience any mild discomfort.”

Harry sat back complacently while spell after spell was cast upon him, coating him in a layer of warmth.

“Magic core, stable. Vitals, stable. Physical responses, normal.”

“Hold on,” Not-Draco interrupted, glaring furiously, “What do you mean by ‘memory loss’? What’s wrong with Haemon?”

Healer Abbott shot him an exasperated look but responded all the same. “Spell-induced damage of the mind are hard to predict and harder still to cure. Given the extent of Mr Blacke’s injuries, it is perfectly normal for him to have difficulties with recalling memories from before his incident.”

“But what does that _mean_?” Not-Draco pressed, with great agitation. “Surely Haemon can’t have forgotten _everything_?”

“I’m afraid only Mr Blacke himself can answer that question,” Healer Abbott said, looking to Harry.

Harry tensed, before deciding to go with the truth. Given how little he knew of this world, it might be to his benefit to act the role.

“I know that my name is Haemon Jameson Blacke,” Harry said slowly, “And that I’m sixteen years old.”

He fell silent.

Not-Draco’s expectant expression turned despairing. “You don’t remember me?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr Malfoy,” Healer Abbott answered when Harry didn’t speak.

The blonde huffed aggrievedly. “I’m Abraxas Malfoy, your best friend since childhood.”

 _Abraxas? Wasn’t that the name of Draco’s grandfather_?

“Your current… _affliction_ aside, Mr Blacke,” Healer Abbott interrupted. “You are good as healed. I will handle your formal discharge papers and you’ll be free to leave by tomorrow noon. Be sure to return for routine check-ups, and Floo if there’s any concern.”

Harry nodded numbly.

“Oh! This is awful!” Abraxas moaned, plopping down into the nearby armchair. “What are we going to do for the Tournament?”

His words sent a chill down Harry’s back. “The Tournament?”

“Yes,” Abraxas said glumly, before proceeding to confirm Harry’s fears. “It’s the Triwizard Tournament. Also known as the Tri-annual Tournament.”

“The Tri-annual Tournament?” 

A voice that was definitely not Abraxas’s answered him.

“Yes. The three most renowned wizarding schools from Europe gather once every three years with their selected representatives from each year, going from third year and up. There are a total of three events and each contestant is given points depending on their performance. Everyone who makes it to the third round will be invited to a prestigious international ball, while the overall highest scoring individual will be named the Triwizard Champion.”

Harry’s eyes widened as the speaker stepped through the door, wavy hair tied back into a fashionable ponytail and dressed in the finest of robes. The familiar shape of his eyes and sharp cheekbones brought a lurch in his chest.

 _Sirius_ …no, not Sirius.

But such a similarity in appearance meant that he must be a close relative. Perhaps a sibling…

Sirius did mention that he had a brother.

“Regulus?” Harry blurted out.

“You remember _him_ !?” Abraxas wailed, shooting up from his seat and earning himself an unimpressed glare from both Healer Abbott and Regulus Blacke. “That’s completely unfair! I’m your _best mate_ !”

“And I’m his cousin,” Regulus said dryly.

“Oh, cut the crap,” Abraxas groaned, “We’re _all_ cousins. But Haemon… _how could you_ ?”

Harry had to hold back a snort at the betrayed shine of his eyes.

“Brax, can you please stop with the dramatics for just a moment?” Regulus sighed, kneading his temple. “We have a serious problem on our hands.”

Abraxas caught on quickly. He deflated, his vibrantly indignant expression dimming. “Oh. So we’re going to have _that_ talk, now.”

Harry watched the exchange curiously, but didn’t interrupt.

Healer Abbott gave them a curt goodbye before sweeping out the door.

“Yes,” Regulus said resolutely, “No more dilly-dallying. We need to discuss we’ll do tomorrow.”

“ _Tomorrow_ ?” Harry’s blood ran cold.

“Yes, tomorrow,” Regulus said, curt and cool. “Representatives from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang have already arrived at Hogwarts last week. The Opening Exhibition is to be held tomorrow evening and attendance is mandatory. Our first task is in a week.”

“You can’t seriously be suggesting what I think you are,” Abraxas hissed. “He can’t compete. Not in this condition. Trauma-induced memory loss—do you know what that means?”

Regulus’s eyes widened for the fraction of a second. Then all emotions are wiped clean from his face. “He’s going to have to. He was chosen—it’s a magically binding contract.”

“But this is… _different_ ! It’s extenuating circumstances! Surely there are exceptions?” Abraxas’s expression crumpled.

“I don’t think the goblet is sentient enough to sympathize with any _extenuating circumstances_ ,” Regulus said drily.

“Wait, wait—hold up a second.” Harry raised his hands.

Both boys turned to him. Even with the decades of Auror training under his belt, Harry had to fight the urge to flinch when faced with two pairs of steely, grey eyes.

“What is the Opening Exhibition? What do you mean by magically binding? What do I have to do?”

Regulus stared at him blankly.

“He really remembers nothing?” He turned to Abraxas.

“Nothing,” Harry confirmed, miffed at being discussed as if he wasn’t there.

A beat passed in silence.

“We’re done for,” Abraxas bemoaned.

“The Opening Exhibition is a chance for competitors to test the waters,” Regulus finally said, conjuring an armchair with a wave of his wand and gracefully sitting down.

“It’s the first official event of the Tournament, although it is more of a formality than anything else. All students, both those competing and those not, are invited to attend an evening banquet. It’ll be held in the Great Hall, with multiple duelling platforms erected throughout the venue. Competitors have the right to challenge one another to a duel.”

“It’s a chance to boast, preen, and assert your superiority,” Abraxas chipped in helpfully. “It’s a good opportunity for the competitors to learn who to avoid and who to target in the final task.”

Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“And as we were saying, you’re going to have to attend,” Regulus continued. “The Goblet chose the representatives from each school. It’s an ancient tradition built on archaic magic. Forfeiture, once chosen, is akin to violating an Unbreakable Vow. You’ll be stripped of all of your magic. Practically rendered a squib.”

Harry’s jaw shut with a click.

“Which means you will be expected at Hogwarts tomorrow, six o’clock sharp,” Abraxas said, perching lightly on the edge of Harry’s bed. “In formal robes and with your wand.”

Harry blanched and Abraxas patted him on the arm. “Not to worry. You don’t have to accept any challenges.”

Regulus’s lips thinned in obvious disapproval. “Some would say that’s inadvisable.”

Abraxas scowled before Harry could speak.

“Inadvisable for the House of Blacke, you mean,” he snapped. His eyes softened when he turned to Harry. “Despite what he says, Regulus is a strict loyalist. If you turn down any challenges in the Opening Exhibition, you’ll be seen as weak and cowardly. It’ll reflect badly on the Blacke family since you are one of the heirs.”

“It will also make your life much harder in the following tasks,” Regulus added, though he didn't dispute Abraxas’s insinuations as to his priorities. “Other competitors may target you if they think of you as an easy mark.”

“But you should still abstain from duelling,” Abraxas said, tossing an annoyed glare in Regulus’s direction. “A refusal to duel is much better than a humiliating defeat.”

A part of Harry took offence at the words. “What makes you two so certain that I’ll lose?”

Regulus and Abraxas both looked at him as if he was daft.

“How do you plan on winning if you can’t remember any spells?” Abraxas asked, torn between amusement and exasperation.

“There’s only so much that you can learn in a day,” Regulus nodded reluctantly. “Theory is useless without practical experience.”

Harry thought it was his wounded pride and Gryffindor recklessness that made him say, “I still remember my _spells_. How can I not?”

Abraxas peered at him dubiously. “Really? What are the words to the knockback jinx? The wand movements to the shielding charm? The exceptions to the summoning charm? How about-”

“How about,” Harry cut him off, “You take my word for it, and should worst come to worst, I’ll handle it.”

Regulus frowned. “We don’t doubt your skills, Haemon. You were one of the best duellists of our year, but you’ve been bedridden for the better part of a month. Just…”

Harry sighed, recognizing the uncertain glimmer in Regulus’s eyes. It was the same one that Sirius got whenever he was set on something, and there was nothing that could be done to change his mind.

“Alright,” he agreed. “I’ll take it easy tomorrow. I promise.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry caves to peer pressure. He really shouldn't have.

Hogwarts was exactly as he remembered it. Its tall spires that pierced the clouds, colossal towers, and cobblestone bridge lit by the warm glow of lanterns all reminded Harry of his own time spent at the castle alongside Hermione and Ron. At the thought of his closest friends, Harry closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

They were gone, like being reborn as someone entirely different.

The clock tower tolled ominously as it struck six.

Harry opened his eyes, a blanket of unfeeling determination falling over him. He started to walk, pushing in through the doors and striding down the halls. The expensive fabric of his robe felt foreign against his skin. His wand—or rather, Haemon’s wand—rested snugly within his pocket.

Abraxas and Regulus had both offered to wait for him, but that felt wrong somehow. His first time returning to Hogwarts in his new life…there was a solemnity to that, a sense of privacy.

As he glided through the corridors, he took in the sight of the familiar portraits and tapestries. The stones were warm beneath his shoes and the dancing lights of candles were a familiar comfort.

He was home.

* * *

“Haemon! Over here!”

Harry heard the shout the second he stepped into the Great Hall.

The tables were arranged differently to accommodate for the half a dozen duelling platforms, and three banners hung from the walls—one of Hogwarts, and the other two likely of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons respectively.

As the doors shut behind him, the din of the hall quieted before returning in full. It felt like his first year repeating itself.

But then Abraxas was standing, waving foolishly over the crowd.

“Haemon!” He yelled again.

Regulus was sitting by his side, looking positively scandalized.

Harry hurried over before Abraxas could cause a scene.

“Thank Merlin you’re here,” Regulus muttered once he’s within hearing range. “Any longer and Brax would’ve lost it.”

“You’re late,” Abraxas accused. “I thought I’d told you to come early.”

Harry settled in across from his cousins, smiling sheepishly. Luckily, a chime echoed before he could speak, and the noise in the Great Hall dwindled down to whispers.

“Good evening, professors, students, and champions.” Albus Dumbledore stood in the centre of the room atop one of the many platforms, familiar blue eyes twinkling in the light.

Harry suddenly felt like a boy again, listening to an eccentric, wizened wizard spin tales of prophecies and evil and love.

After he had initially discovered Dumbledore’s machinations, he had felt betrayed. Abandoned.

Now, faced with the once-deceased Headmaster, all Harry felt was a faint pang of bitter nostalgia.

“I, on behalf of Hogwarts, am honoured to bring to you the Opening Exhibition of the 589th Tri-Wizard Tournament. Now, go forth and feast, mingle, and make new bonds, be them friend or foe. I have no doubt that it will prove to be a delightful evening for us all! Last but not least—Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”

Confused murmurs arose from the Beauxbaton and Durmstrang crowds, but Hogwarts students were already politely clapping, long since familiarized with their headmaster’s peculiarities.

“Thank you, thank you.”

As Dumbledore stepped down, a Weird Sisters song began to blare throughout the room. Soon, the Great Hall was filled with the clinking of utensils, droning conversations, and a flurry of steps.

“He’s cracked, I’m telling you,” Abraxas muttered beside Harry, then, mistaking Harry’s amused expression for one of befuddlement, he clarified. “That’s Wulfric Dumbledore—current Headmaster of Hogwarts and an absolute madman.”

“He does seem very…unusual,” Harry allowed, hiding a smile.

He nabbed a tea-sandwich as a try floated past and nibbled on it absentmindedly.

“Where’s Regulus?”

Abraxas huffed. “Him? Don’t bother—Regulus is never one to miss an opportunity to socialize. Personally, this isn’t my thing.”

Harry raised a brow. “Not posh enough for you?”

He didn’t bother to hide his grin as Abraxas bristled.

“That is hardly-”

Abraxas broke off mid-sentence, staring wide-eyed across the room.

Harry followed the direction of his stare. He already had an inkling of what might have caused such a reaction; and sure enough, a tall, slender girl was now standing atop one of the platforms. The room hushed quickly.

She began to speak, her voice carried by a sonorous charm. It was a rather long speech, starting off with the greatness of her family, then something about Durmstrang, and finally a challenge directed at one of the other students.

Harry stopped listening after the first sentence.

This seemed open a floodgate. Soon, the different platforms were filled with pairs of students; the noise level always fell whenever a new challenge is issued, but rose just as quickly once the match began.

“This is very casual,” Harry remarked as he and Abraxas circumvented the crowd.

A yelp followed by a resounding clack could just barely be heard over the din, then the crowds started to cheer.

“That’s because none of the matches that really matter has begun yet.”

“Those that matter?”

Abraxas started to explain, but the words flew right past him.

Across the room, at the other end of the Slytherin table, sat a very, _very_ familiar face. One that he'd thought that he would never have to see again.

Tom Marvolo Riddle was reclining against the wall with a lazy elegance. His hair was perfectly coiffed, dark curls falling neatly over his brows. The candlelight hit his eyes just right, melting the rich mahogany into a molten bronze; and his outfit was immaculate as always, from the clean cut of his robes down to the polished head boy badge pinned to his lapel.

Harry sneered.

Of course, Riddle wouldn't let himself look anything less than perfect with all those heirs and heiresses to the most powerful families of magical Europe strutting around, latching onto his every word.

The noise around them fell away when he suddenly looked up.

Harry met those terrible, cruel eyes and he thought of bloody messages on stone walls. He thought of the burn in his arm as curved fangs cut into his skin, and the bone-deep coldness of basilisk venom running through his veins. He thought of the lifeless form of Ginny Weasley lain across grimy floors, red hair afloat in a stagnant pool, and an innocuous black book clutched within her bony fingers.

The two Riddles overlayed, one a memory, and the other an unknown variable. At that precise moment, Harry couldn’t tell the difference.

_Harry Potter._

A sibilant voice whispered in the recess of his mind.

“-wrong?”

“Haemon? Are you alright?”

Harry tore his gaze away, forcing his expression into one of nonchalance.

“What?”

“Is something wrong?” Abraxas frowned, concerned. “You’re shaking.”

“Who is he?” Harry asked, looking in Riddle’s general direction.

Abraxas's eyes lit up in understanding, which was in itself was telling enough.

“That’s Riddle. Tom Riddle-Gaunt. He’s in his seventh year, and he’s either the next coming of Merlin or the successor to Grindelwald, depending on who you ask.”

“He’s also Hogwarts’ top dueller.” They turned as Regulus strolled up to them, champagne flute held loosely in one hand. “He is placed first for just about every class and he’s the undisputed favourite for the next Tri-wizard Champion.”

Harry almost shuddered at the veneration saturating his voice.

Harry knew that Regulus had once been a devoted Death Eater, and he could see the beginnings of that same devotion in the approving glimmer of his eyes.

Abraxas snorted, causing Regulus to stiffen, eyes narrowing.

“Riddle is a bit of a personal hero to Regi,” Abraxas whispered secretively to Harry. Not that it did any good, with the glare that Regulus levelled at him.

“He seems…intense,” Harry muttered. The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

“He’s not, normally,” Regulus demurred. “Well, he can be, but Riddle is usually very pleasant.”

Harry blanched, unable to imagine how anyone could associate Voldemort with pleasantry.

But…This Riddle wasn’t as far gone as Voldemort had been. He was still a Hogwarts student, and he had yet to commit the more heinous of crimes that he was known for in another reality. 

_You’re too naive, Harry_ , He could hear Hermione’s chiding voice saying, _Too quick to forgive, too quick to justify others’ faults_.

Harry looked toward Riddle again and he forced himself to see.

There was still the same detached coldness; he still had the same broken soul.

This was merely another vessel for one of Riddle’s soul fragments, just another Horcrux lost to the Void. The original Tom Marvolo Riddle was already no more. The tension in his chest eased.

That’s right. He was dealing with another Horcrux, not an innocent schoolboy, and that was familiar territory.

“What is he like?” Harry said, ignoring the part of him that didn’t quite want an answer.

Abraxas peered at him suspiciously out of the corner of his eyes. “Why the sudden interest in Riddle?”

Harry tried to shrug flippantly. Abraxas didn’t seem to be convinced. “I’m just trying to remember, I suppose.”

 _And to understand why so many would follow a monster_.

That seemed to be a good enough reason for Regulus. “Riddle is the poster Slytherin. Most of the students are in love with him; those who are not would love to _be_ him.”

“He’s also smug, foppish, and got an ego the size of a hippogriff,” Abraxas mumbled.

It likely wasn’t the first time that Abraxas had openly insulted Riddle, for Regulus didn’t so much as blink.

“What have you got against him?” Harry turned to Abraxas. “It sounds like you’re not much of a fan.”

He remembered the Abraxas Malfoy that he had known before, grandfather to Draco and one of Lord Voldemort’s inner circle, whose portrait had glared down at him from the walls of the Malfoy Manor. But that man compared to the current Abraxas was like night and day.

Abraxas looked surprised. “What have I got against _Riddle_ ? Nothing, I suppose.” His pale brows furrowed. “To be honest, I just can’t be bothered to simper after him like everyone else. He’s got enough admirers as it is—besides, I will be specializing in healing. I don’t imagine our paths would cross often after that.”

“Healing?”

“Do you think me incapable?”

“No, of course not,” Harry quickly backtracked. “I just thought you’d be into something more, er, glamorous? Not to say that healing isn't. It's just, with your family and all, you know. You’ll be a great healer, I’m certain.” 

Abraxas gave a huff of laughter.

Even Regulus chuckled. “Not to fear,” he reassured. “Most people don’t believe it when Abraxas first tells them. Their first instinct tends to be that he’s having them on.”

“Or they think that it’s just a phase.” Abraxas’s expression soured. “Or something that I will _grow out of_.”

“Your parents?”

“My entire family, actually. As you’ve said, there isn’t much glamour to healing.”

“Oh. That’s too bad. I’m sure they’ll come around.”

Abraxas’s lip quirked up into a lopsided grin. “It’s fine, Haemon. I’m a Malfoy; I know how stubborn they can get. My parents probably won’t ever ‘come around’, but they will have to live with it. I’m the only heir, after all, so I’ll do what I bloody please.”

“Cheers to that,” Regulus smiled, holding up his glass.

Abraxas snagged two flutes of champagne as a server passed by and handed one to Harry.

Harry took the flute instinctively but didn’t drink. “Er, I’m not very good with alcohol.”

After the Battle of Hogwarts, once enough time had passed for the grief over lost ones to numb over, Harry had partaken in his fair share of celebrations, which, more often than not, ended terribly for all involved; in fact, he was certain that the majority of embarrassing stories that Ginny had of him involved some combination of him and alcohol.

“Come on, Haemon,” Abraxas rolled his eyes dramatically. “Relax. Lighten up. Live a little. The Tournament is starting and we’ll all have our asses kicked. Might as well have some fun while we still can.”

The golden liquid bubbled under the light.

He could easily think of a long list of reasons why he shouldn’t drink, but…Voldemort was gone, Harry was no longer the defeater of the Dark Lord and he no longer had to save the world—not at that moment, anyway.

He was no longer Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. He was Haemon Blacke, and he was just another typical sixteen years old Hogwarts student.

Harry stared at his drink with apprehension for a moment longer, looked up at Abraxas's expectant stare, then his shoulders slumped.

“Cheers,” he said and threw back the glass.


	4. Chapter 4

“And that’s all you remember?” Abraxas cackled.

Harry seethed silently, too focused on the pain throbbing through his head to deign that with a reply.

“Pity,” Regulus said, with little sympathy. “That’s barely a third of the evening.”

They were in the Slytherin dorms. Harry still hadn’t bothered to get out from under the covers; and Regulus was sitting on the edge of his own bed, flipping through a book, while Abraxas was lounging in an armchair nearby.

“You tried to fight Riddle,” Abraxas mentioned conversationally, in the same tone that one might use to discuss the weather.

Harry slumped back with his eyes closed, then he shot up. For a moment, the room spun around him. 

“I _what_ ?”

“Riddle. You know-”

“Yes, _I know_. What happened!?”

Abraxas turned a bemused gaze to him. “It was all really vague. You said some things, he looked surprised, then you said something else, and he looked even more surprised.” He paused. “Then you were yelling at him. Something about him having already lost? It was all very dramatic.”

Harry groaned, falling back onto his pillows. Somehow, they no longer held the same comfort and appeal as they had just minutes prior.

“It wasn’t enough to constitute a formal challenge. You should count yourself lucky,” Regulus said. 

“More than a few students looked traumatized,” Abraxas was practically vibrating.

“You’re terrible,” Harry mumbled, sliding deeper into his duvet. “You’re both terrible.”

“On the bright side,” Abraxas said, eyes lighting up. “You wiped the floor with Prince! It was _priceless_.”

“A job well done,” Regulus agreed, setting aside his book.

“Thanks,” Harry mumbled, before stiffening once more. “Prince?”

“Severus Prince,” Abraxas said, “Sixth year, prefect, Potions prodigy?”

Harry groaned. He wasn’t sure whether to feel mortified or angry for allowing the night to spiral out of control. What if he had said something that he shouldn’t? _Done_ something that he couldn’t explain?

“Hey, cheer up,” Abraxas chirped. “You were brilliant.”

“And it seems like you were telling the truth when you said that you still remember how to duel.”

“Of course,” Harry scoffed, his voice muffled by the covers. “It’s like riding a bike.”

“Pardon?” Regulus’s brows furrowed.

“Er—sorry, I meant riding a broom.”

Abraxas nodded along. “Once you learn, you never forget.”

“That’s certainly a relief, considering our first task is in a matter of days.”

“Aw, don’t be such a downer, Reg. Can’t we just let Haemon have his moment?”

“Haemon can have all the moments he wants once the Tournament is over,” Regulus fixed him with a stern stare that once again reminded Harry of Professor McGonagall.

“The first task?” Harry pushed himself upright, wincing as the motion exacerbates the throbbing within his skull. “What do we have to do?”

“The first task of the Tournament is always creatures-based,” Regulus said. “It’s a group task, meaning the representatives of each school will have to enter in teams of three. The creatures always differ Tournament from Tournament. No same creature is used within several decades of each other. In the previous years, they’ve had dragons, acromantulas, chimaeras, erumpents, griffins, and manticores. So we won’t have to worry about any of those.”

“The last one was a disaster,” Abraxas said cheerfully. “Two of the representatives died and another was nearly crippled. Ripped in half.”

“Oh,” Harry swallowed. Maybe his luck with the dragon hadn’t been so bad, after all.

“Anyway. Us three will have to prepare all we can. By the end of the task, every team is graded on magical prowess, speed, and finesse of execution. The lowest-scoring team from every school will be expelled from the Tournament.”

Harry perked up.

“Don’t even think about it. Father will have our hides if we don’t at least make it past the second task.” Regulus’s eyes narrowed. “And that includes you.”

“Is the entire Tournament group-based?” Harry demanded. The first time around had been bad enough. Harry _really_ didn’t need a repeat the whole ordeal.

“Only the first task,” Abraxas said placatingly. “The second task is duelling—it never changes. Every competitor will be assigned to three others, one from each school. In order to pass onto the second round, you will have to win at least two rounds out of three. You’ll be judged based on the complexity of spells used, combat style, and timing. That shouldn’t be too much of a problem for you, if last night is anything to go off of.”

Harry huffed, irritated. “I can barely _remember_ last night.”

“Exactly,” Regulus drawled. “You laid Prince on the floor, after being bedridden for a month and under influence. Imagine what you could manage sober and prepared.”

“What if I don’t want to move on to the third round? Can’t I just forfeit my matches?”

Abraxas gazed at him pityingly. “That might have worked _before_ last night. Now, everyone knows that you’re good enough to pass through. So if you throw your matches, they’ll take it as a personal slight.”

“And Father will never forgive you,” Regulus added. “Don’t forget, you are more a representative of the House of Blacke than you are of Hogwarts. His expectations might have been low, but now, he will be expecting _both_ of us to pass through to the very last round.”

Harry leaned back and hit the headboard with a thunk. He grimaced as a dull pain throbs through his head.

“What’s the plan for the first task?”

* * *

“The _horned-serpent_ ?” Abraxas hissed. “Are they out of their minds?”

Regulus was beginning to pale, but otherwise his expression remained the same. “It’s got the same classification of XXXXX by the Ministry as the dragon or the acromantula. I fail to see how this is surprising.”

A tremor ran through the ground and the lantern above them trembled.

The tent was an elaborately decorated thing, a step up from the champions' tent that Harry had waited in during his first task with the Hungarian Horntail. The walls were lined with posters of past champions and several settees were placed around a hearth.

Abraxas paced back and forth in agitation while Regulus leaned stiffly against the back of the settee. Harry had opted to simply sit on the ground, running his fingers through the lush carpet to ease his nerves.

“Oh, piss off,” Abraxas said. “You didn’t expect this either and we both know it.”

Harry, on the other hand, only felt a numb sense of déja-vu. When did things _ever_ go as expected when he’s involved?

“Better that than a basilisk,” he muttered.

“That was never an option. Where would you even find one?”

_Probably right beneath us_ , Harry thought glumly.

“Focus,” Regulus said. “We need a plan. We’ve already prepared an aquatic habitat, but the horned-serpent changes everything.”

“We don’t have enough time to _plan_ ,” Abraxas argued. “We’re due to go second. If we’re lucky, _maybe_ we’ll have a half-hour.”

A snarl sounded from outside the tent, followed by a violent splash.

Abraxas paused mid-step, the colour draining from his face. Regulus was beginning to look sick.

“Maybe we don’t have to fight it.”

Both Abraxas and Regulus turned to Harry.

“Our task states nothing about actually defeating it, right?”

Regulus looked at him dubiously.

“The sea-serpent is only a guard to what we're supposed to retrieve,” he continued, “An obstacle to bypass. Nothing prevents us from simply going _around_.”

“…Around?” Abraxas faltered. “But Haemon…it’s a horned-serpent. It’ll be on top of that thing like a Niffler on gold. How are we going to _go around_ without being mauled?”

As if to prove his words, a terrible screech rose in the distant. A hush fell over the crowd before they erupted, cheers mingling with yells.

Harry stood, staring back at the other two with forced calmness. “I don’t know yet. But we’re going to have to try.”

After all, he had been through this once before. It couldn’t be much different. Right?

* * *

The Tri-Annual Tournament, as Harry discovered out, was _very much different_ from the Tri-Wizard Tournament. When he, Abraxas, and Regulus first stepped out of the tent, he could hardly believe his eyes.

There was an actual _stadium_ , not the slightly-altered Quidditch pitch that he had expected.

The field had been turned into an enormous pool with dark, murky waters, with screen-like mirrors hovering at select locations throughout the venue, displaying what appeared to be the bottom of the pond. The bleachers stood behind a translucent layer of protective charm that gleamed whenever the light hit it at a particular angle.

It was magnificent, almost as much as it was terrifying.

The crowd burst into applause as they took up their place along the edge of the pool.

A cough sounded, and Harry turned around to the sight of Dumbledore dressed in a bright yellow raincoat, smiling jovially from his seat on a raised platform.

“And the first team to represent Hogwarts—Misters Abraxas Malfoy, Regulus Blacke, and Haemon Blacke!” He caught Harry’s eye and winked. “The time to beat is 41 minutes by our friends from the Durmstrang Institute. The count starts on the signal, and stops once all three of the team set foot on land with the treasure. Best of luck!”


	5. Chapter 5

Harry had a plan.

One that neither Regulus nor Abraxas knew about, but that was beside the point. He was certain that it will work. Well, mostly certain.

If everything worked out as planned, they should be able to easily sail over the first task.

If not…Harry shook the thought from his mind. There was no time for doubt.

At the blare of the horn, Harry took off at a run and dove headfirst into the pool. The familiar warmth of concealment and enhancement spells draped over him like a blanket, and as he was swallowed by the water, the spark of warming charms flickered to life around his limbs.

Across the pool, he saw the blurry figures of Regulus and Abraxas. They’ve opted for the bubblehead charm—the same as Cedric and Fleur had done. It made communication somewhat harder, but Harry doubted that they’ll have much time to exchange words.

Abraxas and Regulus were soon on the move, gliding easily through the water. Harry followed them, gaze shifting about.

It was silent and the water was still, and everything was going smoothly. Too smoothly.

Harry had a terrible feeling about the entire thing. Nothing— _nothing_ —ever went well for him, and it certainly wasn’t going to start, now.

If their hypothesis was correct, the item that they must obtain should be hidden in the center of the pool at the very bottom. Read—in the very depth of the serpent’s lair.

Harry picked up his speed, and he was nearly halfway there when the pool erupted around him. Water droplets pelted like bullets towards him, and he raised both arms to brace against the force of their blow.

A rumble sounded, and he barely managed to dodge a sharp burst of water. A quick flick of his wrist parted the thrashing waves and he was once again racing forward. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw that Regulus had gone on the offensive, hurling out an impressive array of jinxes towards the dark shape approaching Harry from beneath the waves.

Harry twisted to the side, a knife-sharp glint of bone missing him by an inch. It was just his luck; even with two others in the pond, the serpent went after _him_ first.

Unlike Regulus, he didn’t bother with spells. He knew enough about the creature to know that magical attacks were just as about useful as throwing eggs against a brick wall. Instead, he angled his body, waiting for the moment when the horned-serpent would come close enough.

But it’s cautious, fast, and _very_ slippery; and Harry knew that he would only have _one_ chance, if at all, to get this right.

Soon enough, he saw an opening—the serpent twisted alongside him, the pale of its horn glistening ominously. A gurgling roar passed through its jaws and it sprung forward. Harry counted the seconds as it neared, wand at the ready and hands splayed and preparing for the impact.

Except it didn’t happen.

A jet of red rammed it in the side of the head, and while it didn’t seem to do much in the way of damage, it did catch the serpent’s attention.

Harry’s head whipped around and he stared disbelievingly at Regulus.

A sudden thrum blasted through his mind, and it took a moment for him to realize that it was a snarl from the serpent. Its head was turning away from Harry and towards its new prey.

Panic lanced through him, quick and sharp.

_No, no, no, no_ —suddenly it was as if he was staring into Sirius’s frenzied expression again-

_Not my godson_!

-the flashes of spells against the obsidian tiles of the Ministry, the green light bursting forth from Bellatrix Lestrange’s wand, and the frozen shock on Sirius’s face, as if he had never expected his luck, which had aided him through his Marauder days and right through the first war, to end right then.

The grey tendrils of the Veil were wrapping around him, pulling him back. Hair was swirling about his face—long, loose curls of the darkest shade, exactly like Regulus’s. Dark curls floating lifelessly in the grey of the Veil, in the grey of the stagnant waters-

“ _STOP !_ ” The word tore out of him, resonating through the water in quick ripples.

He forced his eyes open to the blurry glimmer of blue scales.

“ _DON’T TOUCH HIM_!”

For a moment the water grew still, and colder and hotter all at once. It’s as if time had frozen—the serpent was poised mid-strike, muscles tensed but immobile. The silence shattered when the serpent snorted, a thick and quavering sound.

_You who enter my waters and disturb my rest…you speak the tongue of the serpents._

Harry jolted at the slurred hiss. It sounded so _off_ from the usual sibilant words of Parseltongue that he felt almost off-balance.

The currents shifted around him. Harry realized that Abraxas and Regulus are nowhere in sight.

The water stirred. The dark bulge of muscles contorted until he found himself staring directly into a pair of reptilian, amber eyes the size of saucers.

Suddenly, pressure pressed in at his temples. He jerked back, wincing.

_Don’t fret, speaker, your friends are fine. Why have you come within my domain ?_

He stared back in shock. The pressure around him disappeared, to be replaced by a faint pickling at the back of his mind.

_There is something that you seek…I see…_

_Legillimency_ , Harry realized. Or at least, it was using some altered form of it.

He’d never been the best at Occlumency, but he had a feeling that it wouldn’t have helped either way.

A series of incoherent hisses escaped the serpent, but it didn’t sound murderous just yet.

Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out. The serpent snorted, either dismissive or amused.

_Haemon Blacke,_ it hissed. _No…Harry Potter. How very interesting._

* * *

The stadium was filled with soft murmurs as the spectators squinted at the mirrors. The surface of the pool beneath was glassy with nary a ripple. Not much time had passed yet, but the stillness was certainly unusual.

All was silent.

Then suddenly, it wasn’t.

It started with a quiet gurgle, then the water was swelling upwards. A sharp hiss was all that could be heard before a near-tidal wave swept outwards, crashing along the deck.

Some recalled that the previous record set for the first task was 19:51.

The current time was 16:17.

When the water pulled back, two dishevelled figures could be seen strewn across the deck.

The blonde one rose first, almost stumbling from the suddenness of the motion. He looked around dazedly, then swayed, barely managing to right himself. The other figure groaned from where he sat slumped against the wall.

“Where’s Haemon?” Abraxas demanded. Regulus jolted up, eyes wide.

* * *

Harry grunted as he hit the ground.

He barely had time to roll to the side before a crate the size of his torso came crashing down, slamming into the spot that he had occupied mere seconds prior. He lay there for a moment, disoriented, gasping for breath and pushing damp hair out of his eyes.

It took another long minute for him to stand. The water fell off him in swathes and the thick fabrics of his robes clung uncomfortably to his skin.

When he stood, his knees nearly gave way—the earth beneath his feet somehow felt unfamiliar.

From the water behind him, the serpent rose. Its horn cut through the surface first, a spindly outcropping of bone that curved back in a dangerous arc atop its skull. Its scales glistened with a bluish tinge in the daylight and it lingered for the barest moment.

_Farewell, speaker. Perhaps one day, we shall meet again_.

Then, it’s gone, the water burbling as it dove beneath the surface.

Harry wasn’t a stranger to the charged silence that fell over the audience.

Instead, he turned, ignoring the uncomfortable squelching of water within his boots. Regulus was standing off to the side, a gobsmacked expression on his normally stern face. Before Harry could speak, something hurled into him, nearly throwing him to the ground.

“Haemon!” Abraxas cried. “We were so worried!”

He released Harry briefly, brows furrowing.

“Are you hurt at all? What happened? Did you-”

Then, he was being jerked backwards. Harry’s lips quirked up in amusement as Regulus dragged Abraxas aside by the collar of his robes.

“Calm yourself, Brax,” Regulus muttered, practically oozing disapproval. “Else you’ll be finishing what the serpent started and we’ll be disqualified.”

Abraxas pouted, and the expression was so out of place on his sharp features that Harry threw his head back and laughed.

Regulus peered towards him warily, but that only worsened his laughter. He laughed and laughed until his sides hurt and tears were gathering in his eyes. He could feel the bemused stares on him, and even Abraxas was looked concerned.

Finally, he quieted, wiping the grime and pond water from his cheeks.

Harry grinned. Before anyone could react, he pulled Regulus forward in a hug. The other boy stiffened in his arms.

“Thank you,” he said, and Regulus relaxed.

His hold loosened after a beat and he threw his other arm around Abraxas.

“Thank Merlin you’re both alright,” he murmured.

“No kidding,” Abraxas said. If either Harry or Regulus felt the shaking in his frame, they didn’t mention it.

“Ahem!” Harry’s head snapped up and he sees Dumbledore, situated at the middle of the judges’ stand. “The first team from Hogwarts, consisting of Misters Abraxas Malfoy, Regulus Blacke, and Haemon Black, has successfully completed the first task! Their time—16:17!”

The noise level in the stadium rose again, reaching a crescendo.

“We broke the record,” Abraxas whispered incredulously. “We broke the record by no less than _three minutes_.”

“Come on,” Regulus urged, always the voice of reason. “Let’s leave before the press somehow finds their way down here.”

Harry snorted, but didn’t argue.

Together, they made for the exit. Harry’s glance shifted from Abraxas to Regulus, and for the first time since he woke in this world, he felt something in him settle. He smiled.


	6. Chapter 6

However numerous the differences between Slytherin and Gryffindor, parties weren’t one of them.

Green and silver banners hung from the dungeon walls and the party was well underway by the time he slipped in.

A glass of fire whiskey was shoved unceremoniously into Harry’s hand the moment he crossed the threshold. He passed the tumbler onto the nearest student with a grimace. It’s still too soon after the whole fiasco with the champagne.

Jumbled variations of ‘Blacke’ and ‘Malfoy’ were chanted around them as he pushed through the Common Room.

_Well_ , Harry mused, _at least there were no cat-calls of “Potter” this time._

Small mercies.

Hopefully, Haemon Blacke’s relative obscurity from before the Tournament would mean that he wouldn't be subjected to the same attention as his cousins currently were. But of course, it’s a lost hope.

“Blacke!” An arm wound around his and _pulled_.

Harry found himself being spun around, face inches away from that of a petite girl’s. Something about her features struck him as familiar, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

The girl stared back at him with unsettling, dark eyes.

“Alecto Carrow,” she said once it became apparent that Harry wasn’t going to speak. “Not that you don’t already know.”

Recognition flared and it took everything he had to not step back. ~~~~

“Great work today,” she said, flashing a smile that was just a touch too sharp.

Harry wasn’t in the mood to be fraternizing with to-be Death Eaters at the moment— _or ever_ —so he pulled his arm out of her grasp, and sidestepped her with a mumbled apology.

“Hey, Blacke! Wait!”

Ignoring her cries, he pushed quickly through the crowds. He was only stopped once more by an ecstatic younger year whose enthusiasm rivalled Colin Creevey’s—which was as endearing as it was offsetting. After that, he reached the stairs with relative ease.

To his relief, it appeared that the party had been confined to the reaches of the Common Room.

That relief, however, all but dissipated once he stepped into the quiet of the dorms.

Tom Riddle-Gaunt looked up as he entered from his seat in an armchair in the corner. Their gaze clashed for a quick moment, mahogany warring against green, and Harry almost expected his scar to flare up with pain.

But it didn’t.

In fact, nothing happened at all. They were simply two students caught in an awkwardly charged stare from opposite ends of the room. There were none of the sparks that Harry had half been expecting, no sudden ache throbbing in his temple, and no horrible visions flashing through his mind.

Riddle looked away first, the fleeting interest leaving his eyes before he looked down dismissively, returning to his book. Harry might’ve felt insulted if he wasn’t too busy _not_ cursing the man.

Subconsciously, his hand closed around his wand in a death grip. But even Harry wasn’t reckless enough to hex Voldemort in his prime, in the middle of his domain, with over a dozen of his brainwashed sycophants at his beck and call just beyond the dormitory doors.

_There’s a time and place for everything_ , Harry told himself.

The man before him wasn’t Voldemort— _not really_. He was just another Horcrux.

_Just another Horcrux_ , Harry repeated, until it almost became a mantra.

Eventually, he forced himself to look away and channelled all his anger into his steps, tromping into the room.

Riddle looked at him again with a raised brow.

He’s halfway across the room when he realized that he didn’t know which bed was his. And so, for a long minute, he stood there, Riddle still curiously observing him across the room. Then he turned, slipping out the dorm with all the dignity he could muster.

He spotted a head of platinum blonde amongst the crowd, and yelled, “Brax!”

“Haemon!” Abraxas returned cheerfully, lifting a shot glass in greeting. But then he swayed and the transparent liquid sloshed over the rim of his cup and down his robes.

Harry made his way to Abraxas as the other boy cursed, fumbling with his wand and trying—not very successfully—to vanish the stain.

“Brax,” Harry said again, “I need your help.”

That was apparently enough to distract him.

“Anything for my dear cousin,” Abraxas cheered, throwing an arm around his shoulders with a dramatic flair that only Malfoys can manage.

“How much have you had?” Harry’s brows furrowed when Abraxas stumbled again. “It’s barely been an hour.”

“Not enough,” Abraxas laughed and pulled Harry through the crowd. “You should have some fun, Haemon!”

Harry fixed him with a deadpan stare. “That didn’t end well last time, from what I can recall.”

Abraxas tilted his head back and honest-to-god _giggled_. Even though Harry hadn’t said anything that funny.

“And that was _fun_!”

“Just come along,” Harry sighed, half supporting the other boy.

“Where are we going?”

“Back to the dorms. You’re going to show me where my bed is, and then we’re _both_ going to sleep.”

Because after witnessing all of that, Harry didn’t feel that he can confidently leave Abraxas to his own device and trust him not to hurt himself— _and others_.

“…With who?”

The question made him trip.

“ _Merlin_ , Abraxas, you’re impossible.”

“Anything is possible if you put your mind to it,” Abraxas slurred.

After that, Harry didn’t bother with any more words. Trying to reason with Abraxas while he was drunk was harder than trying to reason with him when he was sober, and that was saying something. Instead, he focused on manoeuvring them up the stairs.

Abraxas continued to mumble incoherently and was beginning to doze off against his side by the time they came to the dormitory doors. Harry jostled him awake, casting a cooling charm in the hope that it might help.

“Haemon?” Abraxas said drowsily.

“Brax, can you show me where I sleep?” Harry asked.

“‘Scuse me?” Abraxas faltered, before a look of understanding spread across his features. “ _Oh_ , sure…of course.”

Pushing Harry aside, he stumbled into the dorm. Harry followed him bemusedly, pointedly ignoring the corner which Riddle occupied.

“Tom!” Abraxas greeted brightly.

Harry jolted with surprise.

He had assumed that the two weren’t acquainted _at all_ when Abraxas had revealed his indifference towards the other Slytherin. But in retrospect, that didn’t make sense—even if the current Riddle held no appeal for Abraxas, the same couldn’t be said the other way around. Abraxas was still the Malfoy heir and Riddle was nothing if not drawn to prestige.

“Abraxas,” Riddle drawled. The sound sent chills down Harry’s spine. It’s the same as he remembered from Tom Riddle’s diary—a smooth, flowing voice as flawless as it was poisonous.

“Haemon,” Abraxas’s voice drew him out of his thoughts. “This is your bed—between Regulus’s and mine. Across from us are Amycus Carrow and Rabastan Lestrange.”

_Right in the middle of the proverbial dragon’s den_.

The multitude of future Death Eater names didn’t bother him as much as it should. After all, Abraxas and Regulus weren’t _bad people_ , and they might not have been bad people in his previous life, either. Just misguided. Who was to say that the others weren’t the same?

Instinctually, his eyes drifted over to where Riddle sat, watching them with an indecipherable expression. Abraxas, noticing the direction of his gaze, straightened.

“Oh, that’s right. What are you doing here, Riddle?”

Harry winced at the blonde’s blunt question, half expecting a curse to come hurling their way.

But instead, Riddle only smiled thinly.

“For the peace and quiet, of course. The other seventh years are intent on having their own…fun. And you’re forgetting—I’m Head Boy; I can go wherever I please.”

“But they’ll certainly stop if you ask if of them, won’t they?” Abraxas, oblivious as he is, pressed on.

Harry thought that it can’t be healthy that he could still easily read the minuscule tells in Riddle’s blank expression—maybe he had been a _bit_ obsessed, in his childhood years. Nevertheless, he saw the beginnings of impatience in the hardening of Riddle’s eyes, and Harry got half a mind to hit Abraxas with a quick-sleep jinx before he did any irreparable damage.

“Certainly. But who am I to go between my housemates and their celebrations?” Riddle smiled.

Harry didn’t buy it.

“In other words, let them get it out of their systems now so there’s less resistance later?” He blurted out before he could think better of it.

Both Abraxas and Riddle turned to him, surprised. 

“Precisely,” Riddle said, and there’s a glint in his eyes. Harry decided not to dwell on it.

“But more importantly, Abraxas, why are you treating Blacke like a first-year?”

Harry bristled. 

“Haemon’s got a case of amnesia,” Abraxas answered, then glanced apologetically at him.

He sighed. Better Riddle find out from Abraxas than from snooping around Harry's mind.

"Just a minor one," he said.

“Ah,” Riddle said sympathetically. “Though I must say, it doesn’t seem to have affected his performance in the Tournament, at all.”

“Fortunately, spells are one of the few things I’ve managed to retain. Especially jinxes,” Harry snapped, shuffling over to his bed. _So back off_.

However, Riddle only hummed.

“Hmm…I hadn’t thought Sirius a capable enough dueller to get the better of you.”

For a long minute, the words didn't register.

_Sirius_ ?

“What?” Harry suddenly spun around, eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don't mind me. Just a rumour I've heard going around.”

His eyes flickered to Abraxas, who was paling and looking much soberer. At his heated gaze, the blonde took a step back.

“Abraxas? What happened?”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Riddle lean back, eyes shining smugly. 

“Haemon,” Abraxas started hesitantly. “With the Tournament going on, and everything else being so busy lately, it never seemed to be a good time…”

Harry stared back unwaveringly. Abraxas fidgeted.

“Abraxas.”

“Healer Abbott warned Regulus and me to not mention anything related to the accident, in case it does more harm than good…”

“Tell me,” he said when the other boy remained silent. “I don’t need any _coddling_ , and I’ve lived through worse than having to listen to how I almost died.”

Abraxas flinched at his words. Eventually, his eyes dimmed and the hesitance in his features crumpled into resignation. “Fine, but I can’t go into any details about it.” Harry began to protest, but Abraxas continued speaking before he could. “Because I wasn’t there when it happened. Just listen for a moment, alright?”

Harry gave a stiff nod before Abraxas finally continued.

“We were all at the manor the day before Samhain, and Regulus and I were in our rooms when Sirius—Regulus’s older brother—came stumbling in with you…and you weren’t moving or responding to any healing spells and there was so much blood-”

Abraxas gulped, walking unsteadily to his own bed and settling down, facing Harry. Harry’s mind blanked.

_Sirius?_

The thought of his godfather _here_ , in this strange and convoluted new reality, brought forth a plethora of conflicting emotions.

“Mother took you to Mt. Mungo’s, but…they couldn’t tell what was wrong, only that your magic wasn’t acting as it should and you’ve suffered physical trauma to the head. Apparently, you were having a practice duel when you fell and hit your head and…oh, we were so worried, Haemon! All of us want the best for you, and according to Healer Abbott, that was waiting for you to remember on your own.”

Harry could only sit there numbly, Abraxas’s words washing over him.

Was that truly what had happened to the original Haemon before he came? Was Haemon already _dead_ when Harry’s soul had entered his body? Or had Harry’s arrival somehow, inadvertently, caused Haemon’s demise…?

“That was why Sirius hadn’t been around when you first woke up,” Abraxas continued, his quiet voice a comforting interruption to the whirlpool of Harry’s thoughts. “We had all agreed that it’ll be for the best if you’re given some time to adjust, and potentially recover your memory. We were just trying to help.”

“And so you and Regulus _lied_ to me?”

“Well, we didn’t exactly lie. We just avoided the topic,” Abraxas gave a nervous smile that looked more like a grimace.

“And where is Sirius now?”

“Durmstrang. After what happened...”

Heaving a heavy exhale, Harry plopped down into his bed and lay back against the green and silver duvet. He waited for the inevitable anger and betrayal to settle in, only, it never did. After all, everything that had come before was Haemon Blacke’s life, not his.

He closed his eyes momentarily and felt the exhaustion of the day creep upon him.

Sirius was _here_. Not his Sirius, but...his godfather, who had died for him, the only family he had known since Ginny...Sirius was here, and he was _alive_.

“Sorry, Haemon,” Abraxas murmured in the quiet of the dorm.

“It’s fine,” Harry said.

The soft crinkling of paper drew his gaze. He turned to the sight of Riddle, still lounging in the armchair in his perpetual elegance. Mahogany eyes bore into his.

A swell of prickling heat flooded through him, followed by a flash of emotions. Anger. Frustration. Irritation. Abhorrence.

“And what are you looking at?”

Riddle actually had the audacity to sigh, and Harry never felt more patronized in his life. _Lives_.

“I assure you, Blacke, that I have better things to do than spectate on your excessive family drama.”

He held the glare for a moment more, before glancing away nonchalantly.

It’s a staggering change from what Harry was used to, being the target of all of Riddle’s plots and schemes and ill-intended attentions simply because of who he was—Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.

But that wasn’t him. Not to everyone else, at least. Not anymore. Now, when they looked at him, all they saw was the insignificant Haemon Blacke.

The ridiculing edge to Riddle’s smile was almost enough to send Harry into a rage, consequences be damned. 

“Haemon?” Abraxas said worriedly.

Repressing his growing irritation, Harry turned away decisively from the arrogant bastard and his arrogant, _smug_ smile.

“It's fine, Brax. I don't blame you, now go to bed.”

His neck prickled with the weight of a familiar gaze, and he pointedly ignored it. Not hexing someone had never been so difficult.


	7. Chapter 7

As it turned out, Harry couldn’t escape fame even with his considerably more obscure identity.

Three days have passed since, yet time only seemed to exacerbate the rumours. The moment Harry stepped foot within the Great Hall, he found himself instantly accosted by two determined Durmstrang girls.

“It’s Haemon, right? Haemon Blacke?” One of them asked. Harry was sure that they already knew exactly who he was.

“We were cheering you on during the First Task,” her friend added.

“Er.” Harry looked between them. “That’s me.”

The situation was eerily reminiscent of how his life had been like during the few years right after the defeat of Voldemort, and Harry wasn’t sure whether he felt more disconcerted or flattered. Faced with two pairs of glinting eyes, however, Harry found himself leaning towards the former.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” he said once it becomes apparent that they weren’t going to speak.

The girls paused in their whispering and broke out into near-identical grins.

“Are you currently involved with someone?” One of the girls asked.

“...I'm sorry?”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

The blunt question caused Harry to choke.

“Excuse us.” The other girl cut in. “What my sister means to say is, have you made any arrangement for the Ministry Ball yet?”

Harry stared at them, at a loss for words.

Finally, he forced out, “Ministry Ball?”

To their credit, neither of the girls seemed fazed with his confusion.

“Yes,” the first girl said. “Every champion who passes the Second Task will be invited, and they’re allowed a plus one.”

The words brought a spark of familiarity. Either Abraxas or Regulus must have mentioned it in passing.

“So?” The second girl said, lips pulling up in what was probably an attempt at a flirtatious smile. Harry thought it looked rather predatory. “Have you made any plans yet?”

A brief memory flashed through his mind—red hair done up in an elegant bun, bright eyes sparkling with wit, and a sharp smile. _Ginny_. His chest clenched. Despite all the time passed, he still missed her.

“I-” He began, looking hopelessly back at the pair of expectant eyes. “Erm, I really-”

“Irma, Iris!” A bark cut him off.

Both girls stiffen and their smile falls away. They shrank back as another girl strode up, blonde hair loose about her shoulders. Harry blinked at the familiar, angular face. As she approached, her pixie-like features contorted into an irritated frown.

Quickly, he recognized her as one of the first champions from Durmstrang who had been the first to issue a challenge during the Opening Exhibition. There was not much he could remember about her duels, other than that she'd come out victorious more often than not.

“Menshikova,” one of the girls started.

“Vat are the you two doing?” She said.

“We-” The first girl faltered. “We were just-”

“Leaving?” Menshikova prompted, arms crossing in one elegant sweep.

The girls’ gaze flickered to Harry, but their fear won out in the end and they quickly left after a swift farewell.

“I apologize,” Menshikova sighed and turned to Harry. Her thick accent curls pleasantly around her words. “Some of my schoolmates are rather… _forward_.”

Harry looked back at her for a moment, mind still racing to process the sudden turn of events.

Menshikova held his gaze, then stiffened as the silence grew awkward.

“Vould you like to sit down? Ve are attracting attention.” She motioned tensely.

Harry blinked. Only then did he realize that they were still standing near the doors of the Great Hall, and indeed, stares were being cast their way.

Harry turned to her again. Obviously, she didn’t expect Harry to accept her offer; the resignation in her eyes made his decision for him.

“Sure,” he said.

She paused in surprise. Then, her lips lifted in a small smile, and she nodded.

Together they made their way to an empty table near the end of the room. Harry curiously observed the girl as she settled down across from him.

“Nice to meet you,” she said politely. “Alena Menshikova. Call me Alena.”

“Likewise,” Harry paused before continuing. “I’m Haemon Blacke. You can call me Haemon.”

“Alright. Haemon.” Alena tilted her head, her expression solemn.

Something about the expression reminded him painfully of Luna.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” he said as he began to fill his plate from the widespread of breakfast foods. Alena smiled. He continued, keeping his tone light and curious. “Why are you sitting with me instead of your other Durmstrang friends?”

Alena’s eyes darted towards the Durmstrang group across the room before focusing back to Harry. “Zey are not exactly friends.”

“No?” Harry couldn’t help the incredulity that slipped into his voice. “But you…”

The awed deference the other two girls had treated her with had been clear for all to see. 

She shrugged wryly, pouring herself a cup of tea but ignoring the dishes of foods entirely.

“Zey respect me, but zey do not like me. Some pretends to. I can tell.”

“Why did you choose to speak with me?”

Alena studied him with sharp intensity. “You are strong. You don’t pretend. Vith friends you are…sincere.”

“Oh.” Harry felt warmth course through him at the honest compliment. “Thank you.”

She gave a curt nod, but suddenly, her eyes snapped up and focus on something behind him. Before he could turn around, the seat beside him was being pulled out with a screech.

“Haemon, why’d you leave without me?” Abraxas said, slumping down onto the stool.

Then, Abraxas froze, eyes widening and lips parting comedically as he finally took notice of Harry’s companion.

“Sorry about that. I thought you had already left,” Harry smiled. “This is Alena Menshikova. Alena, this is my cousin and best friend, Abraxas Malfoy.”

“Abraxas…may I call you zat?”

A faint blush rose in the blonde’s cheeks. Harry corked a brow.

“Oh. Yes. Of course,” Abraxas nodded. “It’s a pleasure, Lady Menshikova.”

Alena wrinkled her nose. The gesture seemed so uncharacteristic on her stoic face that Harry had to hide a smile.

“Please. Mother iz ‘Lady Menshikova’. I am Alena.”

“Alena, then.” Abraxas seemed to snap out of his daze, and relaxed, taking everything in stride. “How are you liking Hogwarts?”

Alena hummed thoughtfully. “Iz new. How do you say it…refreshing? But Durmstrang iz home.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Harry said almost instinctively, thinking back to his own childhood spent exploring every nook and cranny of the ancient castle.

“Father almost sent me to Durmstrang,” Abraxas said. “But Hogwarts’s got a better healing curriculum. Mother convinced him to let me come here instead.”

“You vant to be healer?” Alena blinked in surprise. “Yet you are competing in zis tournament.”

Abraxas smiled helplessly. “I haven’t got much of a say in that matter. Being a Malfoy and all.”

Harry startled, remembering something similar that Draco had told him some years after the war.

_How much of a choice do you think I had?_

“Ah,” she said sympathetically. “I understand. You are impressive–Healing iz very difficult.”

“Speaking of the Tournament, have you started preparing for the Second Task yet?” Abraxas asked.

“I’ve practiced vith others. Vat about you?”

“ _I_ have been practically living in the library,” Abraxas said mournfully, before levelling Harry with an accusatory glare. “Haemon, on the other hand…”

“I don’t even know how to prepare,” Harry admitted.

He didn’t need to, either, with his well-honed proficiency in duelling. Not that he’s about to go around advertising that fact.

“You vill be fine,” Alena told him seriously. “Durmstrang iz stronger zan Beauxbatons. Prince iz good. He iz better than most from Durmstrang, but you are _better_. I don’t think zat I vould win if we duel.”

“Thanks,” Harry said. “I’ve seen you duel; you’re very skilled as well.”

“I am ze best at Durmstrang.”

Her words sounded more like a statement of fact than a boast, and Harry didn’t doubt it for a second.

“Do you think that you can beat Prince?” Abraxas asked curiously.

Alena took a moment to think, and gave a quick nod. “Yes. But it vill be close.”

“Then you might be able to take on Carrow,” Abraxas mused. “Alecto Carrow, that is. She is a right demoness. She is very prideful, though, and she tends to underestimate her opponents. But if you are placed against Riddle, be very careful, and take no risks.”

“Riddle?” Harry said sharply, nearing inhaling his pumpkin juice.

“Yeah,” Abraxas shot him a questioning gaze. “The same goes for you.”

Harry placed his fork down silently, suddenly sick.

He hadn’t considered the possibility that he might have to fight Voldedmort— _Tom Riddle-Gaunt_ , he corrected himself. While he knew Riddle’s duelling style by heart, he also knew that the other had an eye for catching slips and was dangerously unpredictable.

“He vasn’t challenged during ze Exhibition,” Alena stated, eyes flashing thoughtfully. “Iz he powerful?”

“Very,” Harry answered. “And he isn’t afraid to fight dirty. You might get seriously hurt.”

Something must have shown in his expression, for Alena’s eyes grew wary. Even Abraxas seemed startled by his assertion.

“Well,” Abraxas said hesitantly. “I wouldn’t put it past him, but…I suppose it’s always a good idea to err on the side of caution. He is the best dueller in Hogwarts—that’s an undisputed fact.”

“Alright,” Alena said, eyes flickering between them. “I vill be careful.” She paused. “If you are matched vith Krum, you should be careful as vell.”

Harry straightened at the familiar name. “Victor Krum?”

“Victoria, actually,” Alena corrected. “She iz good. Dark spells, especially. But she fights cleanly. Unlike others.”

Then, Abraxas was speaking again, offering tips and other tidbits of knowledge about Hogwarts’ champions. But Harry was no longer listening, instead mulling over the newly revealed information.

What would he do if he had to duel Riddle? If they were to draw wands against one another, would he be able to hold back?

But the chances of them being matched are slim to none with the sheer number of students. Surely that would be too much of a coincidence, even for Harry?

Letting out a slow breath of air, Harry tried to wipe the thought from his mind. He would deal with it when it happens. _Should_ it happen.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.

* * *

Harry should’ve known better than to think that it wouldn’t.

* * *

He didn’t recognize the names of his opponents from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, but his third match was against the one person he had hoped to avoid. Knowing his luck, he really should have expected it.

Both Abraxas and Regulus looked at him with pity in their eyes. Honestly, Harry would’ve as well. He wouldn’t wish Riddle’s presence upon his worst enemy. Ironically enough, his worst enemy just happened to be Riddle himself.

“You can still make it to the Third Task if you win your first two rounds,” Regulus said placatingly.

Abraxas was less tactful. “Only if you survive against Riddle.”

Harry was almost offended at his cousins’ lack of trust in him. Though, he supposed that neither of them knew of his prowess in duelling beyond what he had demonstrated against Prince.

“Shouldn’t you be more worried about Carrow?” he scowled.

Abraxas shrugged unapologetically. “Sorry, mate. You really did get the short end of the stick this time. I’d take Alecto over Riddle any day.”

So would Harry.

“On the bright side, we don’t have to duel each other,” Regulus said.

“You’ve no right to talk,” Abraxas narrowed his eyes. “You got _Yaxley_. That’s practically a guaranteed win.”

Harry ignored their bickering, eyes sweeping across the room.

Unwittingly, his gaze landed on a small group gathered near the back of the Great Hall—Riddle’s clique. They spoke quietly amongst themselves, expressions perfectly unreadable. In their midst stood the man himself, looking as if he hadn’t a care in all the world.

Harry’s hand closed tight against his wand and he clenched his teeth. Of course, Tom bloody Riddle wouldn’t view him, the disappointment of the Blacke family, as a threat.

A surge of fury burned through him when the man suddenly smirked—the same expression he had donned standing before the prone form of Ginny Weasley in the Chamber of Secrets.

_They’re not the same_ , a voice argued in his head.

“Haemon, whatever you’re thinking… _don’t_.”

Harry swerved around, meeting Regulus’s dubious gaze. He blinked slowly as the anger retracted.

“What do you mean?”

Abraxas sniggered. “Don’t even bother. You look just as you did moments before you _destroyed_ Prince.”

“That’s different,” Regulus frowned, a worried crease forming between his brows. “This is Riddle. Provoking him is akin to prodding an Acromantula’s nest.”

“Thrilling and adventurous?” Harry said snidely.

“More like suicidal.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m touched by your faith in me. Truly.”

Regulus cracked a brief smile, but it doesn’t last.

“In all seriousness, you should tread carefully.”

“Reg is right, for once. You’ve got to be cautious, Haemon.”

“Yeah. Don’t get killed and all that,” Harry muttered. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Regulus didn’t look as if he entirely believed him.

“Right,” he said.

Harry glanced askance in Riddle’s direction once more, eyes narrowing.

“It’s your funeral,” Abraxas huffed.

* * *

The first half of the Second Task passed in a blur. During his first two matches, Harry merely went through the motions, letting his instinct take over. He barely remembered the spells he cast nor the name of the competitors, only that he must push through to the third round.

_Don’t forget the mission_ , he repeated to himself. _Destroy the Horcrux. It’s all about the Horcrux_.

_But how ?_

He didn’t have any basilisk venom on hand and he never bothered to learn the Fiendfyre spell. Did Death expect him to…kill? Even during his career as an Auror, he had never once cast the killing curse.

At times, the flash of green still haunted his nightmares. The mere thought of having to cast the spell was enough to send bile rising to his throat. Either way, Harry doubted that he could channel enough malice to actually kill with the spell, even if it was against Riddle.

“Haemon Jameson Blacke and Tom Riddle-Gaunt, please make your way up!”

Harry swallowed, and proceeded up the stairs with shaky steps. Could he truly take a life? Is this what Death expected of him?

“Both champions currently boast two prior victories and are slotted to move forward onto the Third Task. It will be an exciting match indeed!”

_Exciting_ , Harry thought bitterly. _Not for him_.

Once again, his life was being turned into a spectator sport, featuring Tom Riddle.

“Haemon,” Riddle greeted once they stood opposite of one another.

“It’s Blacke to you.”

“Touchy. Someone ought to teach you a lesson.”

Riddle’s tone was teasing, but Harry didn’t miss the dangerous glint in his eyes.

“You can certainly try,” he sneered.

Riddle straightened from his complacent slouch, an interested gleam flashing through his eyes.

_Good_ , Harry thought bitingly.

He would defeat Riddle at his best, in a fair duel with the entirety of the arena as witnesses. He would settle for nothing less.

Harry didn’t hear when the invigilator cued the start of the match, but he jumped quickly into action when Riddle fired his first spell—a simple Confundus charm. Very uncharacteristic of him. But in retrospect, Riddle was hardly stupid enough to cast any of the Unforgivables in front of so many onlookers.

Wand whipping before him, Harry conjured a shield of ice just as fire erupted from Riddle’s wand. The two spells sizzled in midair and evaporated in a burst of steam. Then came a maelstrom of sand, but Harry countered it easily enough with a swirl of gust.

He ducked as a borderline Dark curse cut just overhead and rolled to the side, barely avoiding an overpowered _Bombardo_. He threw out a cutting curse of his own, leaving a deep gash in the ground when Riddle veered to the side, and followed it with a _Stupefy_.

A rapid exchange of spells followed, a new spell hurling across the platform before the sparks from the previous had even faded.

Harry countered each hex when he could, throwing up _Protegos_ against minor ones and returning with a spell of his own with the others. He avoided the spells that he didn’t recognize, all the while increasing the pace of his own spell work.

A heady burst of adrenaline ran through him—one that he hadn’t felt since he had last fought against Voldemort in the Battle of Hogwarts. He let it fuel his spells, his footwork. Alongside his ingrained Auror training, it pulled him through the volley of curses, mostly unharmed.

Harry was the first to make a mistake, slipping atop a frozen section of the floor. Riddle caught on easily, and one of his curses left a stinging cut on Harry’s arm and a tear in his robes.

Yet, Riddle’s own performance was hardly perfect. A moment passed in which he hesitated, and Harry could see his lips forming around the _Cruciatous_ curse, but pausing upon realizing where they were.

_Old habit dies hard, after all_.

But it wasn’t enough of a distraction. One of Harry’s spells left Riddle’s robes and the tips of his hair slightly singed, but that is the extent of the damage.

“How’s that lesson looking?” Harry smirked.

An _Expulso_ missed him by an inch and Harry grinned as his knock-back jinx hit its target. Riddle stumbled but righted himself quickly enough, sending back a gust of debris a flick of the wand.

It continued until the audience around them seemed to fade away, leaving only them and a tattered battlefield. A part of Harry was almost irritated at how equally matched they are, even with his own century of experience.

There’s a lull in their movements when they both paused, breathing hard and staring unblinkingly at each other. Riddle looked worse for the wear; his carefully styled hair fell in loose curls, damp with sweat, and he was sporting a light limp. Harry himself wasn't doing much better, half-blinded by the trickle of blood and sweat running down the side of his face and favouring one shoulder.

It all came to a head when Riddle cast a spell that Harry knew only too well.

“ _Serpensortia_ !”

Harry stiffened as a cobra sprang out before him, uncoiling and turning to regard him with beady eyes.

“ _Finish him_ ,” Riddle hissed.

The sound of Paseltongue slipping past Riddle’s lips was enough to invoke a plethora of unpleasant memories.

_Dark halls, black marble, the stale stench of decay, cold stone pressed against his cheeks-_

Harry’s lips curled just as the cobra reared back.

“ _Having someone else do your dirty work, Riddle ?_ ” He taunted, revelling in the sudden slackening of the other's jaw.

The opening was exactly what he needed, and Harry didn’t allow himself any room for doubt as he slashed out his wand.

“ _Confringo_ !” He snarled, watching with morbid fascination as the blasting curse cut a clear path towards Riddle, who seemed too stunned to react.

But before his spell could hit, a sudden burst of green light threw him backwards; Harry flailed, barely managing to keep hold of his wand. A sharp pain spasming through his limbs was the last thing that he remembered before the world spun out of focus.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Welcome back, Harry Potter_**.

“What happened?” Harry demanded. “I almost had him. And I thought that you couldn’t interfere. Why-”

 ** _I made an exception, as it was a special case. You were sent to collect the fragments of his soul, not to kill him_**.

Harry almost groaned in frustration.

“Well, it’s hardly my fault that you didn’t tell me how I was supposed to go about it. What else am I supposed to do?”

Death, however, ignored him.

 ** _If you are to kill the Tom Marvolo Riddle of this dimension, this piece of his soul would simply move on to infest the next world. Worst comes to worst, it may splinter off into smaller fragments. All of the time that you’ve spent here would then be for nothing_**.

For a moment, Harry could barely believe the words that he was hearing.

“Then tell me what I’m supposed to do!”

His words echoed throughout the Void and for a beat, Death remained silent. A dawning horror crept up upon him and once again, he found himself lamenting the fact that he couldn’t simply die in peace like everyone else.

“You don’t know either.”

 ** _It’s complicated_**.

If he didn’t know any better, he would've said that the timeless entity sounded defensive.

 ** _The only way for a Horcrux to move from one vessel to another is if it willingly chooses to do so. There are very few historical precedents_**.

Harry paused in stunned silence.

“So you’re saying that I have to _somehow_ amass every individual soul fragment into one vessel, and only then can you finish him?”

The resulting silence was enough of an answer.

“And how exactly do I persuade an immortality-obsessed megalomaniac to give me a part of his soul?”

 ** _Gaining his trust is a good start_**.

“Trust?” The absurd statement startled a bark of laughter out of him. “I don’t think he has any _trust_ to give!”

 ** _He is still a mortal, still human. It would do you good to remember that fact. I wish you the best of luck. And don’t forget, Tom Riddle must_** **not _die_**.

* * *

Harry woke up disoriented, with a light shining in his eyes and voices rising and falling around him.

It took a minute for the numbness to fade from his limbs, and a while longer for him to realize that he's still on the duelling platform. He gingerly flexed his fingers, wincing at the sharp pain that shot up his arms.

How long had passed during his impromptu drop-in to the Void?

“Time! And there you have it! The match between Haemon Jameson Blacke and Tom Riddle-Gaunt!”

A groan drew his attention and he sprang up. He instantly regretted it when the sudden motion sent a nauseating lurch through his stomach. Across from him, Riddle slumped against the translucent barrier that bordered the platform, head lolled to the side.

Harry pushed himself up on shaky legs, only to be assaulted by a sudden burst of noise. He flinched from the deafening applause and yells; the clambering audience nearly drowned out even the booming voice of the invigilator.

“Both champions will be moving forward to the Third Task with two wins and a draw. Now, that is what I call a duel!”

Harry scrambled down from the stage as fast as he could without falling over. Ignoring the dull ache of magical exhaustion, he scurried past the medical tent and escaped into the cover of the castle instead.

Finally, sitting within the safety of one of the hidden passages, Harry allowed himself to slump down against the wall.

A strangled huff escaped him, and he wasn’t sure whether he wants to laugh or cry.

For the sake of the universe, he had to ensure that Tom Riddle stayed alive. Long enough until he could somehow coax Riddle into relinquishing his soul, though how he could possibly accomplish that was beyond him.

How had this become his life?

Absentmindedly, Harry realized that Dumbledore had lied to him yet again.

 _Death is the next great adventure…_ what a load of codswallop.

A bloody nightmare was what it was.

* * *

Riddle approached him first.

Harry saw him in the peripheral of his eye, flanked by two of his many sycophants cutting through the bevy of students with confident strides. The light caught on his Head Boy badge, letting off an ominous gleam.

It spelt nothing but trouble.

Harry turned as the other neared, swivelling around and slipping into the crowds, pointedly ignoring the dark eyes burning a hole in the back of his head.

He’s not running away; it’s simple self-preservation.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

It’s only been a few days, yet already Harry knew that all of his prior hopes were dashed. Those hopes being, of course, that Riddle would ignore him as he had done before.

Lamentably, Riddle had taken to doing the exact opposite.

Some of his friends would call him paranoid; they weren’t exactly wrong, but…he knew better than to believe in coincidences. _Especially_ if Tom Riddle was involved.

The Slytherin in question was beginning to frequent all of Harry’s usual hang-outs, whereas, before their duel, Riddle rarely spared him a glance in the halls.

During meals, his gaze would occasionally drift over to Harry, but as soon as Harry felt his patience wearing thin and looked up, he would avert his eyes.

The worst of it was that Riddle had somehow, for some godforsaken reason, convinced his lackeys to publicly acknowledge Harry, and as often as they could. Having baby Death Eaters tip their heads to him in passing or call out his name in the corridors had been mildly disturbing at first, then increasingly annoying.

Other Slytherins naturally sensed the shift and were beginning to pay Harry more attention. He could no longer fade into the backdrop like before. Not like he would be able to anyways after his and Riddle’s duel.

The suspicious glances from the other Houses, though...those were certainly new. He suspected that that was what Riddle had been aiming for all along.

So far, none of it had done him any actual harm. Harry knew better than to let down his guard all the same, and whatever scheme Riddle was orchestrating from the shadows, he wanted no part of it.

Harry didn’t relax until he neared the Astronomy Tower; the busy drone of noise dwindled to distant echoes, and other than him, only a few students occupied the wide expanse of the corridors.

Suddenly, a hand clamped around his elbow and he was dragged sideways.

Harry internally cursed, wand slipping into his grasp. The classroom doors slammed behind him and he spun around.

A flash of platinum blonde caught him by surprise.

“Woah,” Abraxas backed off quickly, hands shooting up in the air. “Easy there, Haemon.”

“Oh,” Harry lowered his wand. “It’s you.”

“Who are you expecting?” Abraxas’s brows rose.

Abraxas was probably one of the last people in this world that he'd expect to be ambushed and cornered by, especially not in a dark classroom across the school from the dungeons.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“I'm a Malfoy, I have my ways,” Abraxas said nonchalantly. “That’s beside the point. Haemon, you’ve been avoiding us.”

“I haven’t,” Harry protested.

It wasn’t a complete lie. If anything, they’re the only ones that he'd willingly speak with at that point. Rather, Harry had been steering free from public areas in general. Really, it was perfectly reasonable.

After the Second Task, everyone suddenly seemed to know his name. Strangers approached him and bombarded him with personal questions; _thrice_ , he'd been approached by those hoping to be his date to the ball. Even the professors looked to him with a recognizant glint—not that they were being exactly subtle, either.

If he hadn’t already gone through one life’s worth of fame, he would've lost it by that point.

“Whatever you say,” Abraxas cast him an unconvinced stare. “You do know that if you ever need to talk to someone, Regulus and I are always willing to listen, no?”

Harry blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Well, first you practically disappear for days. Then you breeze through two matches, and…” Abraxas gestured quickly, clearly frustrated. He struggled for another moment before slumping in defeat. “Haemon, you should’ve seen it. It was _magnificent_.”

Seeing his cousin’s dazed expression drew an amused smile to Harry’s face.

“There were so many rocks and so much dust and sparks everywhere and you were both going _so fast,_ then suddenly—there’s fire and water and snakes and-and-” Abraxas huffed. “Nevermind. But you know what they’re calling the duels that came after?”

Harry didn’t answer. Abraxas continued without a care in the world.

“ _Bland_. That’s what.” A flash of glee flickered through grey eyes. “Prince was right after you. He was positively _fuming_.”

Harry groaned, “Please, I’ve already heard enough these few days about that stupid duel.”

“‘Stupid?’ Hardly!” Abraxas exclaimed. “You _drew_ with Riddle! Do you know what that means?”

“Assassination attempts? Target on my back, price on my head, the whole package?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Abraxas rolled his eyes. Then, his expression quickly evened out. “In all seriousness, it’s just about a badge of honour. No one ever ties with Riddle. And Salazar knows he had enough challenges in the past.”

“It’s only a draw. There’s nothing impressive about that,” Harry said. “I could’ve won.”

“I’m sure you can,” Abraxas said appeasingly.

Harry paused, wavering. “You think so?”

“I’m not the only one, you should know. You’ve entirely upset the betting pool—you’ve almost as many votes as Riddle now. Oh, and I think someone started a fan club.”

Harry stared blankly back at the blonde’s terrifyingly serious expression.

“There are _bets_?”

Abraxas looked at him as if he’s dense.

“This _is_ the Tri-Wizard Tournament,” he said as if that explains everything.

“Right.”

“But I digress. The point I was trying to make is,” Abraxas paused, chewing on his bottom lip in an uncharacteristic display of nervousness. “You’ve been avoiding us, Haemon, and whatever the reason, I’m telling you that it’s unnecessary. Oh, don’t give me that look—I’m more perceptive than most give me credits for. Regulus is worried as well, and he’s barely sufferable on a good day. We may all be competing in the Tournament, but we are family and we are friends first and foremost. ”

Harry, more than a little dazed by the rant, faltered, and the protest died in his throat.

“I know that we haven’t had a chance to properly talk and if it makes you more comfortable-”

“Wait, wait,” Harry cut in almost hysterically. This really wasn’t a conversation that he wanted to have in an abandoned classroom. Or anywhere, for that matter. “I haven’t been avoiding you or Regulus. I swear to Merlin!”

“-come on, Harry, I promise we won’t…” Abraxas trailed off. “…You really haven’t…?”

Trying to diffuse the strange atmosphere, Harry laughed. It came out as a strangled noise that’s one octave too high.

“No! I swear,” he repeated.

“Well,” Abraxas mused. “You’ve been avoiding _someone_. Who is it? You new admirers? The fangirls?”

Now, that's one more reason for Harry to hide away from the crowds.

“No,” he groaned. “Please, it doesn’t matter. Can we just drop it?”

“Is it _Riddle_ ?”

Evidently, even a lifetime of Auror training couldn’t improve Harry’s ability to mask his emotions. Abraxas whooped in glee.

“It is! I knew it!”

Harry scoffed, turning away.

“Tell me you wouldn’t do the same. What I’m doing right now—it’s called _surviving_. Riddle must be furious after…you-know-what. I don’t want to wake up and find myself sharing a cubicle with Moaning Myrtle.”

“Who’s Moaning Myrtle?”

“Er…pissed off a Dark Lord, offed by a basilisk in the lavatories? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

Abraxas looked dubious but shrugged it off.

“Riddle wouldn’t murder you in the girls’ loo,” he said.

 _If he only knew_ , Harry thought.

“Besides, Riddle doesn’t seem to mind it all that much, from what I’ve seen,” the blonde continued, finger tapping thoughtfully at his chin. “I’d almost say he is…impressed? And frustrated at your absence?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked suspiciously.

Abraxas shrugged, a bare movement of the shoulders that somehow still seemed elegant.

“He always looks over during meals when he thinks we’re not looking. Sometimes he looks irked that you’re not here, but never angry. He came up to us a while back, asking where you were and saying something about returning your DADA notes-”

“How’d he get my notes?” 

“-and once, he pulled Potter aside in the halls—Merlin, you should’ve seen his face when he realized he got the wrong person. The disappointment. The frustration. It was _golden_.”

Harry's chest constricted painfully and his head snapped up.

 _Potter_ ?

“Honestly, I think he just wants to talk to you,” Abraxas finished, spreading his arms in a _what-can-you-do_ gesture.

“Talk?” Harry echoed, filing away his sudden realization for later consideration. “I don’t think so. The only time Riddle ever wants to talk is if he’s coaxing Founders’ heirlooms from company-deprived elderly women, or if he’s gloating just before attempting to commit murder via basilisk so that his victim knows of his unparalleled prowess.”

Abraxas gaped.

“That’s oddly specific. And not at all disturbing,” Abraxas muttered. He’s gazing at Harry with concern, and Harry didn’t blame him. “Anyway, it’s almost supper, and you have to join us. Riddle isn’t going to AK you with the entire school and then some as witnesses. Not that he would’ve anywhere else.”

“We’re not going to the Great Hall.”

Brows crinkling, Abraxas stepped back and crosses his arms. “Haemon, you can’t be serious. You haven’t eaten anything in…” His face paled as he did the math. “How are you still alive?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “There are other ways to get food without having to crowd in the Great Hall.” He grinned enigmatically. “Directly from the kitchens, for example.”

Abraxas paused, expression shifting to incredulity before smoothing out into resigned acceptance. “Only you, Haemon.”

“So, how about you nab Regulus and we’ll meet at the entrance to the Hufflepuff Common Room?”

A moment passed in silence before Abraxas sighed, conceding with a brisk nod.

“I’m not even going to ask.”


	9. Chapter 9

The days passed. Harry had taken to slinking from one secret passage to another. He was always the first to leave the class and he took his meals in the kitchen, sometimes joined by Abraxas or Regulus.

He thought that if Riddle hadn’t wanted to kill him before, he certainly did now. Which meant it’s all the more important that they remained safely out of cursing distance with each other.

Then it’s the day before the Ministry’s Ball, and Harry suddenly realized that it may not be a realistic goal, after all.

* * *

“Beautifully done, Haemon! I’ve always known you are a cut above the rest.”

Harry tried to smile, but he’s almost certain that it came out as a grimace.

Fortunately, Walburga Blacke—or, Harry shuddered, _Aunt Burga_ —didn’t seem to notice. She continued with her animated congratulations, while Orion Blacke smiled at them from his seat beside her. Harry was glad that they were separated by the width of the dining table, all the more so when she swiped her arms outwards in excitement.

The steak knife in her hands missed her husband by an inch. Orion paled, his smile becoming strained.

Regulus and Abraxas were sitting on either side of him, but they were similarly quiet. It was clear that none of them wanted to disrupt Walburga’s rant, if only out of fear of drawing her attention.

Harry took another bite of his toast; it tasted bland and dry, like sawdust, but he chewed and swallowed dutifully.

It was breakfast on the morning before the Ministry Ball, and relatives had the option of dining with the champions. The Malfoys had already excused themselves and Harry didn’t blame them.

“You boys are all set for the final task, I presume?” Walburga asked, tossing a stray ringlet of dark curls over her shoulder.

Abraxas’s eyes followed the movement charily.

“We’re doing great,” Regulus said.

“Everything’s just peachy,” Abraxas squeaked out when dark eyes turned to him.

Harry stifled a laugh as the blonde’s cheeks heated with mortification, but his amusement died quickly as Walburga rounded on him.

“And Haemon, dear. Shall we be expecting another surprise?” She said slyly, leaning forwards with a maniacal gleam in her eyes that reminded Harry of her Blacke heritage.

“Er…I-” Harry stuttered, but fortunately Regulus was quick to his rescue.

“We’ll all try to stick together,” he promised. “I’m sure we’ll do well.”

The Third Task was a test of survival set in the midst of the Wrathful Woods, and undisputedly the most dangerous task of the Tournament and all competitors will be allowed entry based on their current ranking in the scoreboards.

“Just remember,” Walburga said. “The end justifies the means, and there are no rules to the Tournament.”

She winked, and Harry had a distinct feeling that she'd just given them express permission to commit murder.

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Regulus said.

Abraxas nodded quickly in agreement.

Walburga smiled sharply, taking a sip of her tea. Then, her eyes flickered to the side and she paused. Orion straightened beside her, expression turning unreadable. 

Harry suddenly had a terrible premonition.

“Lord and Lady Blacke,” a smooth voice said, “How wonderful of you to visit.”

“Heir Gaunt!” Walburga tittered. “It has been too long.”

Harry didn’t share the sentiment.

Riddle, the bastard, took her hand and bows over it at a perfect angle, lips pulled up in a pleasant smile. “I hope that the family is well?”

“As well as can be,” Orion said. “I see that you’ve done quite well for yourself, not that anyone would expect any less, with your landslide victory in the last Tri-annual Tournament.”

“Are we to expect a repeat?” Walburga teased.

Riddle’s gaze drifted over to Harry, and Harry stiffened immediately. “The competition has certainly risen in quality.” A secretive smile.

 _What a pretender_ , Harry seethed.

“Oh?” Orion, unsurprisingly, picked up on the ‘slip’. “You are acquainted with Haemon?”

“No,” Harry gritted out at the same time Riddle said, “But of course.”

Harry had _many_ responses to that, but Riddle beat him to it. “Actually, I’ve come to speak with Haemon.”

Walburga blinked, eyes flitting conspiratorially between them. Then suddenly, as if only then realizing where they are, she gasped. “Where are our manners? Please, join us.”

At her pointed glare, Abraxas, the traitor, scooted quickly to the side. Riddle sidled in beside him, that infuriating smile never once leaving his face.

“Riddle,” Harry spoke before this could spiral any more out of control. “Why are you here?”

“Do I need a reason to talk with a friend?”

Harry stared back challengingly, “Not with a friend, no. Is that what we are?”

“Haemon!” Walburga hissed reprimandingly.

“It’s alright, Lady Blacke. I find Haemon’s bluntness to be quite refreshing.” Then to Harry, “I’m hoping to be, if you’re amenable.”

If Riddle’s betting on the chance that Harry would be more courteous with his family around, he had a whole other thing coming.

Harry mirrored his smile, overly sweet. “I wasn’t aware that you were… _amenable_ …to friendships.”

“Do you think so lowly of me, Haemon? I’m hurt,” Riddle said, smile morphing into something more akin to a smirk. Harry wanted nothing more than to wipe it off of his smug face.

“I _don’t_ think of you.” Lie.

“Are you going to the Ministry’s Ball for the Champions tomorrow?”

Harry blinked, thrown by the sudden curve in conversation. Riddle looked back innocently. Now, Harry _knew_ that this could amount to nothing good.

“I wasn’t aware that it’s optional.”

“It isn’t,” Riddle agreed. “Not if you want to have a future in magical Britain.”

“What brought this on?”

Riddle hummed, all nonchalance, which instantly put him on guard. “I have gathered from a few of my more informed acquaintances that it is to be a grandiose event.”

“I have gathered that myself, thanks,” Harry said drily.

“Yes, well, the guest list is a thing to behold, or so I’ve been told. Allegedly, both the French and German Minister for Magic will be there, amongst others.”

Harry paused, staring back uncomprehendingly. “Right…”

“And as a concerned housemate, I thought I ought to warn you in advance.” The flash of red in Riddle’s eyes was gone as soon as it came. “After all, with so many prominent figures in attendance, there are bound to be just as many…opportunities. It’d be best to be prepared. _For the worst. Who knows what might happen_.”

Harry jolted at the sudden switch into parseltongue. Almost reflexively, his gaze swept over to the rest of his party. None of them seemed to notice, caught up in a conversation of their own. After a moment of deliberation, Harry turned back, eyes narrowing in an unspoken challenge.

“ _Do you know something_?” he hissed. “ _Why are you telling me_?”

“ _I know of many rumours, whispers, fears of the rightfully paranoid, but nothing certain_.” Harry’s sure that that’s a lie. Riddle’s never one to be out of the loop. “And consider it as a friendly reminder. A freebie, if you will,” he continued smoothly, drawing himself up in a way that immediately caught the attention of the other three Blackes and Abraxas. “I’ve said all I’ve come to say. Hopefully, the information will be of some use. Pardon me, Lord Blacke, Lady Blacke, Heir Blacke, Heir Malfoy…Haemon.”

Harry glowered as Riddle rose and elegantly took his leave, robes swaying behind him in a dramatic sweep. More than a few eyes turned to watch his graceful exit out of the Great Hall.

“Haemon, dear,” Walburga hedged, the lilt of her voice sending shivers down Harry’s back. “You never mentioned that you are acquainted with Heir Gaunt.”

Abraxas and Regulus looked to him pityingly before glancing away, probably to avoid drawing Walburga’s attention to themselves.

“That's because we’re not,” Harry said curtly. “He’s just covering all of his bases. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, all of that.”

“Enemies?” Orion echoed, sounding distinctly amused. “And I was under the impression that he has managed to charm his merry way into all of Slytherin’s good graces.”

“I’m sure many would agree with you.”

“What did he say?” Abraxas asked curiously.

“Apparently, both the German and French Minister will be attending the Ministry’s Ball.”

“ _What_?” Abraxas exclaimed, fork dropping from his slackened hands to clink loudly against his plate.

His shock was shared by Regulus, who didn't even bother pointing out the faux-pas as he normally would've.

Walburga blinked and exchanged a look with Orion; neither looked surprised. Harry narrowed his eyes.

“It was kind of him to pass that on,” Regulus said at last, though the agitated tapping of his fingers against the table betrayed his emotions.

“And unexpected,” Abraxas added. “I can’t imagine it’d be easy getting that kind of intel. Anyone else would’ve kept it to themselves.”

“Right,” Harry tried exceedingly hard to not sneer. “Very kind of him.”

“If he’s being truthful, he’d have done you– _and us_ –a great favour,” Regulus said. “It’d be proper to offer him a favour in return. Quid pro quo.”

“There are many ways that could go terribly,” Harry said.

Regulus ignored him. “He _has_ been trailing after you for weeks. Maybe you should speak to him and see what he wants.”

Harry gulped down the remainder of his juice to hide his scowl. “Everyone’s already expecting the British Minister for Magic to be there. A few more hardly makes any difference.”

Four pairs of eyes turned on him, openly aghast. Abraxas and Regulus gaped at him as if he’d finally lost it. It’s the same expression of abject horror that Hermione had worn when Harry had suggested that perhaps not _all_ house-elves wanted to be freed.

“Haemon,” Abraxas said, hand darting out to latch onto Harry’s shoulder in a surprisingly strong grip. “This is an _unprecedented_ opportunity, do you understand?”

“Yes,” Harry said while unsuccessfully trying to escape the other’s grasp. “One which I am sure that you, Regulus, Riddle, and whoever else knows will be fully exploiting.”

“You’re one of Hogwarts’ best!”

Wincing, Harry pried Abraxas’s hand from his arm and sighed. “And by the time Riddle’s done with them, his name will probably be the only thing they can remember. Now if you’ll excuse me, I still have some work to finish before tomorrow.”

And then he stood and rushed out with shaky steps, trying very hard to not think about the implications behind Riddle’s cryptic warning.

* * *

He snuck in his wand to the Ball anyways.

* * *

Harry had known that it was going to end badly when he learned that the Ministry Wards have been temporarily lowered to allow foreign ambassadors to Floo in.

The evening started off pleasantly enough. Everything was needlessly extravagant, excessively reflective, and Harry heard more feigned giggles and exclamations within an hour than he had for the entirety of his previous life.

Abraxas and Regulus tried to convince him to join them in making rounds around the room, but he refused. Instead, he took to standing in a corner and watching the room, and Riddle, who flitted from group to group like an overly tall, disgustingly charismatic butterfly.

Harry hated every moment of it.

Between evading the gaggle of girls who seemed to have made it their mission to coerce him into a dance and the Ministry officials who kept trying to ‘commend him on his unprecedented performance’, he felt as if the night was dragging on to be a sort of torture that even hell couldn’t dredge up.

More than once, he felt the familiar weight of a sharp stare, but when he turned, all he saw was a sea of colourful dresses and unfamiliar faces.

“Not your scene?”

“Merlin!”

His hand flew to his chest and he spun around, eyes wide. He had his wand halfway into his hand before he managed to stop himself.

Riddle leaned against the wall at his wide, brows raised. “You seem on edge.”

“You don’t,” Harry said, reluctantly retracting his wand.

“There's no point in it. At least I see you’ve got sense enough to heed my warning.”

“Personally, I’m more worried over that fact that you warned me at all.”

Riddle tilted his head, as if trying to figure out a particularly interesting puzzle, then smiled, slow and amused. Harry felt a swell of apprehension.

“I see no reason for worry when you’ve prepared.”

“For what?” Harry asked.

He got no answer.

Riddle looked away, eyes sweeping around the room. Harry followed his eyes across the expanse of the polished dance floor, to the tables against the walls stacked with flutes of champagne and plates of fancy appetizers, back to the crowds milling about.

Nothing seemed out of place.

There was a faint prickle of magic that had him straightening, so slight that he doubted he would've noticed had he been any less focused. 

Riddle tensed beside him, all humour draining from his face. “Get out your wand.”

“What is it?” Harry questioned, letting his wand drop back into his grip.

But Riddle's attention was already elsewhere. A faint tremor seemed to run through the walls; the crystals dangling from the chandelier swayed slightly and the champagne glasses clinked atop the trays, spilling fizz over the sides. Few others seemed to notice, engrossed in the party as they were.

Then, the faint orchestral music cut off with a screech, and the room exploded in a flurry of dark smoke.


	10. Chapter 10

Confused panic rippled through the crowds as hooded figures materialized around the ballroom in thick gushes of black smoke. The scene was eerily alike to when Death Eaters had flocked the graveyard during Harry’s fourth year, but he knew that this was something else entirely.

He wasn’t sure when the first spell was fired, but soon he's leaping into the fray, deflecting colourful blasts of hexes and curses. All the while he scanned the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of platinum blonde hair or gelled back dark curls.

Evidently, not many people had thought to bring their wands, and most of those who had were more focused on running in the opposite direction. Harry envied them.

He’s too retired to have to deal with this crap. Being the hero for one lifetime was already one life too many, in his opinion, and he swore, the moment he finds the other two-

“Haemon! What in Salazar’s name-”

“I don’t have time for this, Riddle!” Harry shoved past the older boy.

But then his arm was suddenly caught in an insistent grip and he’s being pulled back.

“The Ministers are still there. Their Auror details are containing the worst of it,” Riddle yelled, barely audible over the din of the room. “It’s where they will be focusing their-”

“Then all the more reason to-”

“Don’t be foolish-”

“Let go of me, Riddle!” Harry snapped. “I can’t-”

“Haemon, listen to me for the love of god!” The muggle phrase shocked Harry into turning around, incredulity clear across his face.

“Blacke and Malfoy are fine,” Riddle told him.

At first, the words didn’t register.

“What?”

“Your cousins are safe,” Riddle repeated, fingers tightening around Harry’s arm. “I saw them slip out through the back. Come on. We must leave. _Now_.”

Harry let himself be dragged along, half-dazed. Why did Riddle…?

“Haemon!”

He twitched, turning just in time to avoid a cutting hex to the face.

“Are you determined to be utterly useless or are you actually going to help?” 

It took an embarrassingly long moment for Harry to push his worries aside and raise his wand, joining Riddle in clearing a path towards the exits.

They fell into an easy rhythm, weaving around the overturned tables and through the crowds as they fired off spell after spell. A part of Harry still struggled to believe that he’s actually working with Riddle, of all people, and they were working together _well_. 

A moment later, they slipped down the corridors and towards the foyer where the Floo Network was located. There were a few slips along the way, a few stray spells that flew pass too close for comfort. When they finally reached the foyer, they found it empty and silent.

Harry pulled ahead of Riddle, jogging to the nearest hearth and grabbing a handful of Floo powder from the pot, and tossed it in. The flames swallowed it up and flare a bright emerald.

“Hogwarts?” He looked to Riddle, who’s already shaking his head.

“No, they won’t be expecting us yet; the wards are most likely still up.”

“The Blacke Manor it is, then,” Harry turned back to the flames, hoping that the family wards would allow the both of them through on account of his blood.

He should’ve known better than to assume that the worst of it had already passed. Riddle’s half-way through a spell, a sharp glint to his eyes, but before Harry could turn around something was slamming into him and throwing him back. He bit back a groan as he collided into Riddle, sending both of them sprawling across the marble floor. Riddle's wand skidded off to the side, just beyond reach.

He scampered back, ignoring the throbbing pain in his knees, and looked up into the dark hood of the masked man. Another stockier figure trailed behind him in identical robes. The ground tremored beneath Harry's palms, and he was seconds away from leaping forward before footsteps echoed from the adjacent halls.

On the other side of the room, two more hooded figures slipped in, wands held loosely before them.

Shit.

“ _Any brilliant plans_?”

Harry jolted at the sibilant words.

“ _We have to make a run for it_.”

Riddle didn’t take his eyes off of four, giving a minute shake of the head. “ _No, we won’t make even halfway to the Floo with these odds_.”

“ _Do you have any better ideas_?”

The man at the forefront of the group raised his wand and levelled it towards Harry. Then slowly, it shifted and turned on Riddle.

Harry knew what’s coming next before the tip of the wand started to glow a haunting green.

“ _We fight_ ,” he hissed.

Throwing himself to the side, Harry lashed out with a blast of familiar red light and one of the masked figures was sent reeling, wand spinning towards him.

Out of his peripheral, he saw Riddle sidestep a curse and their eyes met for the briefest flash. Harry snatched the wand out of the air and tossed it in a perfect arc. Riddle grabbed it and fires off a blasting curse all without missing a beat.

But he’s forced to tear his gaze away when a flurry of curses came raining down from above. He cursed loudly.

One of the other masked figures hissed when his spell landed, voice raspy and coarse. But that did little to slow the onslaught of spells from the others that pushed him back further from the green flames.

 _Death_? Harry tried, desperate. _Death, can you hear me_? 

The lack of response was expected but left a sinking sensation in his stomach all the same.

The other two figures advanced toward him, wands slicing through the air. He flicked the spells aside, hastily wiping away the sweat stinging his eyes.

 _Fair warning,_ he continued anyway, _You’re the one who wants Riddle alive, so if this goes horribly wrong...don't blame me_.

Just as the spell exploded forward in a burst of green, he swerved and slashed out his arm, sending out a perfectly aimed jet of blue that hit Riddle in the side. Riddle’s eyes widened as he was suddenly thrown across the floor, toppling backwards into a burst green flames.

“Haemon-!”

There’s a pop in the air as the flames curled in on itself, gushing up in a burst of heat. A blink later, he’s gone.

Almost immediate Harry’s vision flashed red, and he’s jerking his hand back as his wand spun through the air and fell in one of the masked figure’s grasp.

“How… _brave_ ,” one of them sneered, speaking for the first time since the fight began.

Harry sneered right back.

The figure continued, ignoring him, “if it isn’t our lucky day. The _Revered House of Blacke_ …not so cocky now, are you?”

“Merlin, ”Harry muttered, “not this again.”

Brilliant.

First, the Death Eaters, and now, whoever's minions these were seemed to have taken an unhealthy interest in him as well.

“To think, you would-”

“I’m sorry,” he cut in abruptly, “But I literally couldn't care less. If you don’t mind, can we move on to the part where you try to kill me and spectacularly fails? I’ve had to sit through more than enough monologues, and yours doesn’t sound particularly creative.”

For a moment the figure stilled. Not one to waste an opening, Harry was moving before the others had the time to react. He didn't get far, however, before another barrage of spells was being hurled towards him. He let his instincts carry him, but there was only so much his instincts could do without a wand in his grasp.

 _Come on, Death_ , Harry thought, _y_ _ou can’t leave me hanging. Do something. Anything_.

And…nothing. There’s not the slightest of change—no sudden drops in temperature, no hell-hounds bounding to his rescue, none of the ghostly apparitions that had appeared before his face-off with Voldemort.

A cutting jinx caught him in the leg and he tumbled, rolling to the side to avoid a _bombardo_ that missed him by mere inches.

Gritting his teeth, Harry ducked again, not entirely able to avoid the second blasting curse as it caught the side of his sleeves. Several options raced through his mind. Only…in such a close enclosure, the majority of those options were just as likely to injure him as they are to stopping the attackers. Which left him with…

The thought hadn't had enough time to form before a bright red curse coursed directly towards him. Instinctively, his hands rose, and his fingers closed around the spell. A warmth shot up his arm like a jolt of static; his hand curled into a fist, and the red glow sputtered out, dissipating from between his fingers in thin wisps.

A stunned silence suddenly filled the room. The hooded figures all paused, and Harry stared back, feeling just as shocked as they were.

Then he spasmed, suddenly flooded with a heat that was beginning to burn. His hands snapped to the side, and a burst of red swept out from him in a sharp arc—the same glow as the spell he'd caught.

A moment later there were four thuds as the others collapsed in a heap of dark robes. For a minute Harry kneeled there, catching his breath, hands throbbing with a fading numbness. His vision swam, but he forced himself to stand. 

Distantly, he could hear the echoes of more footsteps.

He took a deep exhale and stumbled across the room, flinging himself towards the flooplace that Riddle had gone through. Out of the corner of his eyes he caught sight of someone coming out from the corridors, gesturing widely. A spell barely clipped his robes, but then the green flames flared up around him and the atrium of the Ministry disappeared.

* * *

Harry tumbled out and nearly fell face-first into the floor, but luckily a hand reached out and steadied him just in time.

“Well done, Mr. Blacke, very well done.”

Harry blinked, finding himself staring directly into the beaming face of Albus Dumbledore.

“What is this?” He scrambled back as the lavish decorations of the Headmaster’s office came into sharp focus. “What’s going on?”

Riddle’s standing across the room, face twisted in a subdued mix of irritation and frustration, and if Harry didn’t know better, he’d say that Riddle was avoiding his eyes.

“You are the second tonight to successfully clear the Ministry’s assessment, behind Mr. Riddle-Gaunt. Both of you shall receive a bonus on points obtained in the final task as well as a formal invite to meet the Minister and the Heads of the various Departments at the Ministry.”

A beat passed in absolute silence. Harry blinked, then everything hit him at once and he raised a hand to his temples. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“…Pardon?”

“Is this a joke? I almost died out there! _We_ almost died-!”

“I promise you, Mr. Blacke, that none of the contestants was under any real danger-”

“Authorizing _bombardos_ to be cast in our faces _isn’t_ ‘real danger’? What if I didn’t react fast enough? And if I tripped and fell? I’d be a smear across the Ministry’s walls!”

As Harry’s words grew in volume, the smile froze and slid off Dumbledore’s face.

He paused and drew a deep breath, exhaling annoyedly. Trust Albus Dumbledore to send him to Death’s door and endanger a multitude of Hogwarts students, only to congratulate him after he almost died.

“I apologize, my boy, for having caused you any distress-”

“That's certainly one way to put it.”

“But I can assure you that the safety of the students-”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry cut in, utterly unrepentant, “But I’ve had a long day and I’m not feeling the best. May I be excused?”

Dumbledore stared him for a beat, lips thinned in a disapproving frown.

“…Very well. Good night, Mr. Blacke. Mr. Riddle-Gaunt. The official announcements will be made tomorrow.”

Without waiting for Dumbledore to finish, Harry’s already halfway across the room. By the time he stepped out into the corridors, his nails were digging painfully into his palms and he was breathing heavily. Hearing another set of footstep echoing behind him, he quickened his pace.

“Haemon—hey, Haemon!”

He rounded the corner and came to a sudden stop, swerving around. As Riddle turned he grabbed the front of his robes and pushed him against the wall, suddenly furious.

“You knew.”

Riddle’s silence was more telling than anything he could have said.

“You knew this was all a test. You—you _used_ me.”

Riddle remained expressionless. “That’s not the word I’d use-”

“I don’t like _being manipulated_ ,” Harry hissed, “the next time—actually, scratch that. There won’t be a next time, because you won’t bother me again.”

His stare narrowed, maintaining eye contact, but Riddle’s face gave nothing away.

“I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

Harry huffed, a surprised and slightly hysterical laugh bursting out of him. “You don’t understand why I’m upset? You can’t be serious. You can’t treat people like pawns, use them for your own benefit, and expect them to thank you for it.”

“It all turned out well in the end. We’re the first two back.”

“I don’t _care_ about the bloody challenge, Riddle!”

“Surely you can see how great we were together-”

Harry scoffed, taking a step back and dropping his hand to his side. “You’re ridiculous.”

Riddle bristled, but before he could get a word out Harry continued.

“If you wanted to work together, you should’ve asked instead of…instead of going through all of this. I’m sick and tired of mind games.”

Riddle blinked. For a moment Harry wondered if he had given too much away. But then Riddle said, “you would’ve said no.”

“Obviously, for good reasons.” Harry turned, walking away before he did something that he’ll truly regret.

“Why?”

His steps paused.

Riddle’s frustration was a near-palpable thing. “What have you got against me?”

 _Killing my parents? Subjecting me to two decades of abuse?_ Harry wanted to retort. _Ruining my life? Ruining my death?_

“It’s not you. It’s me,” he said instead, lips twitching despite himself. 

“Don’t you want to do well in the Third Task?” Riddle asked, evidently changing tactics, “I can help.”

“I don’t need your help,” he snapped, “And I doubt that you need mine.”

He could almost see Riddle's patience fraying at the edges, and felt a surge of fierce, vindictive satisfaction that usually only surfaced after a Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match.

“Why? Do you hate me so much that you’ll jeopardize your chances of winning?”

Harry shook his head and laughed, glancing back at Riddle’s indignant frown. “You and your assumptions, so certain that the _great Tom Riddle_ can’t possibly get anything wrong. Did you think I cared about this Tournament? That I wanted the glory, to win some empty title for others to fawn over?”

Riddle didn’t move, merely looking back to him, inclining his head. A glint of something passed over his features, but Harry didn’t read into it. Probably plotting again, like usual.

“Haemon, listen,” Riddle finally said, “I understand that you have a certain…dislike-” _loathing would be more accurate_ “-towards me and my friends-” _minions, more like_ “-but I would rather not have to guard my back against you. If you’d be amenable, I can promise that none of the other Slytherins will-”

Something clicked, and Harry blinked.

“ _This_ is what it’s all been about?”

Riddle’s actually suggesting a…truth? A non-aggression pact? As inconceivable as it was, there was no diabolical scheme, no elaborate death-traps, or heinous machinations. Just…this. The prospect was as disorienting as it was amusing.

“What did you think I was after?” Riddle asked, voice strangely blank.

“…I never bothered to guess,” he said.

He took in Riddle’s expression–smooth, guarded, faintly irritated–and it set him at ease, somehow. Much more than his usual masked smile might have. He wanted nothing more than to walk away, yet…

 _Tom Riddle must not die_ , the raspy whisper seemed to echo in his mind.

Harry broke their stare first.

“Fine. If it’s non-interference you’re after, you have it. But,” Harry held up a hand as Riddle’s expression eased, unfurling into an almost-smile. “Control your henchmen.” Riddle’s nose wrinkled. “Tell them that my cousins are off-limits.”

“Only your cousins?”

“I can handle myself just fine,” Harry bit out. “But just know that whoever you send at me, you won’t be getting back.”

“Fair enough,” Riddle acquiesced.

They stood there for a moment. Riddle’s gaze was still fixated on him, seemingly searching for something. Harry wasn’t sure what it was and whether he found it by the time he turned away.

“You’ve got what you wanted. Congratulations. Now leave me the hell alone.”

He turned and headed back to the dorms, and this time Riddle didn’t stop him.


	11. Chapter 11

The next day saw a thin crowd of lacklustre students trickle into the Great Hall. A chill permeated the room, likely brought on by the coming winter months.

Harry’s already there near the outer edge of the Slytherin table, looking around him with no small amounts of trepidation, by the time Abraxas and Regulus emerged from the corridors. Neither looked like they had a full night’s sleep.

“What a nightmare,” Abraxas said, slinging himself onto the bench opposite of Harry, echoing his exact thoughts.

“Great work, Haemon,” Regulus slipped in beside him with much more grace. “After everything, I can’t say I’m surprised. Though,” he took on an expression that had Harry bristling on instinct, “it was unexpected who you chose to partner with.”

“Not like I had much of a choice.”

“Looks like you’ll be the talk of the school again,” Abraxas said sympathetically, glancing over his shoulder.

Harry turned, and several heads swerved back around, while others didn’t even try to hide their gawking.

“Yeah,” he grumbled, “I figured.”

So much for keeping himself out of the spotlight.

Just another year ruined by Riddle and his bloody schemes.

On the bright side, his cronies finally stopped plaguing Harry with their overly cheerful greetings and constant scrutiny. True to his word, Riddle must have called them off after their ‘talk’ in the halls.

Not like that mattered now, after Dumbledore’s public congratulations to them for completing the challenge just before breakfast.

It was like First Year all over again. Or second. Or all his years at Hogwarts, really. Envious eyes followed him in the corridors. Whispers died when he walked into a room. Harry wasn’t sure whether they were about to hex him or ask for his autograph half the time.

“Haemon, are you listening to me?”

Harry started, nearly upsetting his half-empty glass of pumpkin juice.

Regulus jerked back his arm and barely managed to avoid the stray spatters.

“Are you feeling alright?” Abraxas asked, frowning. His outer robes were slung carelessly over the back of his chair.

_How was he not cold?_

“Yeah,” Harry said, “Just tired.”

His cousins shared a glance that could mean anything, and Harry narrowed his eyes, annoyed.

“Well? What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” Regulus sighed.

“Then why are you both looking at me as if I’m going to keel over any second?”

“You’ve just been rather…twitchy this morning,” Abraxas said, unsure, “and pale.”

“Really pale,” Regulus supplied.

“Well, I feel just fine,” he snapped, then let out a rough exhale. “Sorry. I'm a little on edge. Probably just didn’t get enough sleep after last night. Can we—can we talk about something else?”

Regulus watched him doubtfully, then spoke.

“Brax and I were just discussing the Third Task.”

“We would’ve brought it up earlier, but truth be told, neither of us was sure that we’d make it through,” Abraxas said. "Especially after you got hurt."

“What do we have to do?” Harry asked, resigned.

“It’s simple, really. We go off into the Wrathful Woods one by one, based on how well we’ve done so far. What follows is a sort of free-for-all treasure hunt of sorts. The Triwizard cup is hidden somewhere in the depths of the forest, and to officially end the task, it must be found and brought back.”

“The one who hands the cup to the judges gains an extra 10 points,” Abraxas added.

“One by one?”

“In your case,” Abraxas said, “We’d probably go in the same group,” he gestured towards Regulus, “but since you and Riddle passed the Ministry’s assessment, you’ll be allowed in first.”

Harry’s stomach dropped despite himself. He didn’t want to spend a moment longer with Riddle than he had to, never mind at night amidst a forest filled with things that could kill them. Even if the placement did make it easier for him to…he grimaced internally, _protect Riddle_.

Not that he needed much protection.

If anything, Riddle probably posed more of a threat to him than anything in the Wrathful Woods did for Riddle himself.

His disdain must’ve shown on his face, for Abraxas hurried to add, “You’ll enter at different locations, most likely. They want to avoid the strongest Champions from teaming up from the start—it won’t be much of a challenge, that way.”

“Competitors all start off with a token obtained from the chest from the Second Task, and each token is worth a point,” Regulus continued, “They can issue duels in order to gain tokens or challenge a fellow competitor for the cup. The goal is to amass the highest amount of points possible.”

“Simple, huh?” Harry said wryly. He tried slipping his hands into his pockets, but it didn’t help.

“Some people like to scout out the grounds ahead of time. It seems reasonable in theory, but-”

“It’s not viable in practice,” Abraxas shrugged. “Too many trees that look the same, especially in the dark.”

“Most agree that it’s a task best done alone or in smaller numbers,” Regulus said, “It takes much longer to amass enough tokens in larger groups, and distributing the points always results in conflict.”

Harry hummed, unable to suppress the nervous tingle beneath his skin.

He’d seen Regulus and Abraxas fight; doubtlessly, they were skilled. But Cedric had been too, one of the best in Hogwarts, and Harry remembered his face, slackened in shock and lit by a green flash, in perfect clarity. A wave of dizziness washed over him.

“Don’t worry,” Abraxas grinned, as if reading his thoughts. “Reg and I know how to take care of ourselves. You, I’m more worried about.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Abraxas snorted, and even Regulus cracked a smile. “Have you seen yourself fight? It’s almost terrifying.”

“Terrifyingly reckless,” Regulus amended.

“I did get this far, didn't I?”

“Half of which by sheer luck,” Regulus said, amused.

Harry started to reply, but found that the words seemed to be stuck in his throat. He blinked.

Abraxas’s smile faltered. “Haemon, are you sure you’re okay?”

Suddenly the walls of the Great Hall were tilting around him, and it took the sharp sting of the ground jostling his shoulder for him to realize he was the one that was falling.

 _Not again_ , he thought as his vision swam.

Two concerned faces hovered over him, but the colours and lines all blurred together.

“Haemon—damn it! Someone get-”

The voice grew faint, distorted, almost as if they were underwater. Harry barely registered the numb press of something— _a hand?_ —against his forehead before the world went dark.

* * *

The Void was, unsurprisingly, dark when he opened his eyes. What was surprising was that Death wasn’t there.

“Hello?” He called out.

No response came.

He waited, then waited some more.

“Death?”

The dark grew darker, the quiet more pronounced, yet Death still didn't appear.

Harry tried yelling, questioning, calling out, but no one came. Then he tried to move through the Void, which proved futile. Surrounded by darkness all around, it’s impossible to tell which way was up, never mind gage whether he was moving at all.

It was ridiculous.

Harry had done exactly as he was told, and now Death pulled a stunt like this and couldn’t even bother to show itself?

Then again, this was the exact sort of thing he’d come to expect from Dumbledore. He shouldn’t be surprised at that point.

He couldn’t be sure how long he waited there, suspended in the Void. It could have been minutes or hours; time felt strange there, like it was simultaneously sped up and slowed down.

Eventually, something echoed in the distance, like the chime of one of those old standing clocks. He straightened, trying to follow the sound.

Then, a sliver of light appeared, as if pouring in through the crack of an opened door. From within a figure emerged, seemingly peering into the Void. The chimes grew in volume, sounding from the light.

Harry opened his mouth, anger flaring. But then the light caught the figure’s face and— _oh_. His thoughts ground to a halt. The anger died as quick as it came.

“Mum?” He croaked.

His shock was mirrored in the freckled face of Lily Potter, framed by a halo of fiery curls.

“H-Harry?”

He made to move towards her almost instinctively. Absently, he noted that the echoing chimes had quieted.

“How…”

But before he could, the force that held him up seemed to snap, and he was falling once again.

* * *

“…must ask you to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere until Haemon wakes up.”

Harry woke to the sharp smell of potions and linen. A strong sense of déja-vu washed over him as he blearily took in the scene: Abraxas, hovering defensively over him, while Healer Abbott stared back with practiced disapproval.

“Brax?” he murmured, voice cracking.

Abraxas rounded on him in an instant. “Oh, for the love of Merlin, you just about gave us a heart attack. How are you doing? Does it hurt? What happened? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Mr Malfoy,” Healer Abbott said drily, gently but firming pushing him aside, “if you don’t mind, I’ll take over the questioning for now. If you would please fetch Mr Blacke?”

Abraxas started to speak, but visibly restrained himself and stepped back. He looked back at Harry reluctantly.

“Haemon…”

“Go on,” Harry said, wincing when his voice cracked. “I’m okay.”

That seemed to appease Abraxas, and he slipped out of the ward after another glance back.

“Mr Blacke,” Healer Abbott said, drawing Harry’s attention back to her, “I’ve carried out a few tests while you were unconscious—only for a day, don’t fret—and there appears to be nothing out of the ordinary other than a lack of sleep, stress, and a minor case of magical exhaustion.”

Despite what she was saying, her expression was dampened by a slight frown.

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Usually. But in the light of your previous injury…” she pursed her lips. “An unidentifiable cause is more worrisome than a known one. The good news is, it does not appear to be serious, and so long as it doesn’t happen again, there should be no need for concern.”

He nodded, but her expression didn’t ease.

“If anything feels strange, come at once. For the next week, try to get more sleep and avoid overtaxing yourself with spell work. I understand that may be difficult to accept, given your position as a Champion, but too much practice can be more detrimental than none.”

“Spell work?” Harry echoed.

“As I’ve said before, magical exhaustion. Quite common at this time, unfortunately, after that foolish test the Ministry dredged up,” her distaste was written clearly across her face. “The only remedy is rest, I’m afraid.”

She paused.

“Though, it is concerning that-”

The rest of her words were drowned out by the sound of the door flying open. Abraxas hurried in, tugging Regulus along by the elbow.

“What’s wrong with him? Is he going to be alright?” he demanded.

Healer Abbott sighed, grim expression melting into one of exasperation.

“He will be just fine. As I was just telling Mr Blacke here, if he gets ample rest and takes care not to overuse his magic, all should be fine. If anything similar is to occur, report back to me immediately.”

While Abraxas bombarded her with questions, Regulus came over and stood there, silent for a moment.

“Haemon,” he said, at last, voice uncharacteristically laced with worry, “for the Third Task…don’t overdo it, okay?”

“Whatever happened to upholding the sterling reputation of House Blacke?” Harry said, quirking a brow.

Regulus scoffed. “Not much good that’d do if you’re comatose again, or worse. Mother might not show it, but…she was worried half to death. I’m sure she’d tell you the same thing.”

Something warm rose in his chest at his cousin’s open concern. But he forced it down, focusing on the reason that he was here in the first place.

If he was lucky, he’d retrieve Riddle’s soul fragment, however he’s supposed to do that, and move on to the next world within a few years. It would do no good to get attached, not when he was never meant for this world anyway.

Abraxas and Regulus belonged to Haemon, not Harry. His unexplained trip to the Void reminded him of that: he was here for a mission, and he ought to treat it as he would any of his Auror assignments. 

His chest clenched at the memory of his half-glimpse of Lily, looking not a bit different than when her apparition had held his hand in the Forbidden Forest, a silent comfort as he walked to his own doom.

He just hoped that, when he inevitably had to leave, they won’t be hit too hard by his absence.

“I’ll take care of myself, don’t worry,” he said, giving a crooked smile, and pushed down a pang of guilt when Regulus returned it.

Whatever the case, the next time he came face to face with Death in the Void, it would have a lot to answer for.


	12. Chapter 12

Harry’s luck, miraculously, didn’t strike again until the beginning of the Third Task.

As soon as he stepped into the teleportation array at the edge of the Wrathful Woods, the world around him shifted and the cheers of the crowd died away. He landed gracelessly in a muddy clearing, and he wasted no time casting a quick _lumos_.

It was night, and the Wrathful Woods was just as dreary as he remembered it, with gnarly roots twisting through the earth and sickly lichens draping off the trees.

A part of him wanted to make a beeline for the cup and bring an end to this as soon as he could, but Death’s words held him back.

Besides, it’s unlikely that the Champions would be transported anywhere near the cup. Which meant that even if Harry started his search now, it may still take hours, maybe even _days_ , before he finds it. Anything could happen in that time.

Once again, Harry had to push down the Gryffindor in him that wanted to leap instinctively into action. His goal wasn’t to win the Tournament—it’s to make sure that Tom Riddle stayed alive. Knowing Riddle, he wouldn’t be satisfied with merely winning. He’d go after as many champions as he could, gain an unprecedented amount of points, before making a dramatic return with the Triwizard Cup.

…Harry loved his job.

“Point me, Tom Riddle,” he said. His wand spun but gave no clear result. He frowned, then tried again, “Point me, Tom Marvolo Riddle.” The same thing happened. _But why?_

Shaking his head, Harry moved on through the undergrowth. He had no time to dwell on questions. It looked like he’d have to go about this the harder way.

Suddenly, a shriek pierced through the silence. Harry froze, then flew into action.

It’s a girl’s voice, so it couldn’t be his cousins or Riddle, but Harry would’ve bet that Riddle was involved somehow. None of the other Champions was confident—or foolish—enough to make a move so early in the task.

He leapt over a fallen log and scrambled up a hill, flicking his wand before him to keep any stray branches from slashing his face. When the undergrowth started to snag on his cloak, he pulled it off and kept running. 

The scream echoed again, much closer, cutting off halfway into a whimper. Harry slowed from his sprint and edged forward, wand at the ready and on full alert. While his years as an Auror hadn’t done much for his impulsiveness, he did manage to learn that charging into unknown situations rarely yielded good results.

As he rounded a bend in the path, he mentally prepared himself for the worst. Good thing, too. Harry didn’t scream at the sight before him, but just barely.

Tom Riddle stared up at him from the ground, eyes hollow and body twisted. Bile rose in the back of Harry's throat; he didn’t need his glasses, let alone a diagnosis charm, to know that he was standing before a corpse. Riddle’s neck was obviously broken, his robes were barely intact, and dark blood pooled around him, almost black in the moonlight.

Harry swayed at the sight, heating draining from his face. He rushed forward and dropped down, hands trembling and hovering over the shredded flesh of Riddle’s torso. He had to do something—anything, but…but what?

Then, to his horror, Riddle’s body _melted_ into dark smoke and grew. In the place of his mangled body stood a familiar mirror.

For a moment, something seemed out of place, then realization set in.

Harry rose from his crouch and his reflection mirrored the action. Except it wasn’t a reflection. It’s _him_ , but it’s Harry Potter, not Haemon Blacke. It’s strange, after weeks of staring at the aristocratic curves of Haemon’s face in the mirror, to suddenly see himself again. It almost felt like seeing a stranger, but with an odd mix of familiarity and nostalgia.

“ _Harry…_ ” Whispers sounded around him. “ _Harry…Harry!_ ”

He could hear Ginny, Hermione, Ron, Neville, Luna…but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the reflection. There’s something terribly wrong about it. His expression was detached, cold. Did Harry ever look like that? Carried that same emptiness in his eyes? An expression that'd look at home in the face of an eleven years old Tom Riddle sitting alone in a muggle orphanage. But on Harry, it was all wrong.

And why was he alone? Where were his parents, his children, his family? Wasn’t the Mirror of the Erised supposed to show the deepest desires of his heart? Show him at his happiest? What did this mean?

“-Haemon!”

Harry jerked back, turning and seeing Riddle pushing himself up from the ground several steps away, not a hair out of place but very pale and very much alive.

“It’s a boggart!”

For a moment the words don’t register, then Riddle spoke again.

“It’s not real; it’s a boggart! Cast the spell!”

“Ridikulous,” Harry whispered.

For a moment, the whispers quieted. Then, the glass exploded outwards in a burst of red and gold confetti, before gathering in a swirl and dissipating. 

“Haemon,” Riddle approached cautiously. “Are you alright?”

His voice brought Harry back to his senses. He took a step back, on full alert.

“Who were they?” Riddle asked.

“What are you talking about?” His voice cracked.

“The boy in the mirror. The voices. Why were they calling you Harry?”

Harry inhaled sharply, and glared. “That’s none of your business.”

“Maybe so,” Riddle said, watching him closely, expression masked. “But you can’t blame me for being curious. Your face—it was like you saw a ghost.”

Harry nearly laughed. Riddle had no idea how close he’d hit to home.

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” he said instead. Suddenly, he remembered the girl from before, and his eyes narrowed. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“The girl that was screaming. I followed the sound here.”

Riddle’s eyes flashed. Harry followed his gaze to the side, where a girl lay sprawled across the ground in a dead faint. By the steady rise and fall of her chest, Harry could tell that she’s still alive. There appeared to be no visible injuries, but that meant little where magic was involved.

“Before you start throwing around accusations, I did nothing to her. She's not even a Champion.”

Harry started; upon a closer look, she wasn't wearing any of the standard school robes.

That moment of distraction was all it took. His hand spasmed with a jolt of pain and his head snapped up, gaze dazedly following his wand as it spun through the air and landed in Riddle’s outstretched hand.

Harry turned around slowly. “Give me back my wand, Riddle.”

“Hm…I don’t think so.”

“We agreed on non-interference.”

“Not quite,” Riddle smiled, slow and predatorily. “ _You_ promised, I did no such thing. And here I was, thinking that you could…how did you put it… _handle yourself just fine._ Hm, _Harry_?”

“Don’t call me that,” Harry seethed.

“I’ll call you whatever I like. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re in no position to be making demands.”

They stared at each other, Harry glaring and Riddle looking infuriatingly smug. Moonlight spilled down from the parted clouds, drawing out their shadows. Under the pale light, Riddle's eyes seemed to take on a red glint.

The air grew tense around them, dense with a building pressure about to explode. Harry felt static prickle up his arms, and he couldn't be sure whether it was adrenaline or his own magic. Then, in tandem, Riddle moved and Harry leapt sideways. A cutting curse glanced his robes but he didn’t hesitate, throwing himself down into a dive and nearly tumbling into the unconscious girl. He ignored the stinging pain as his knees met the ground and snatched the girl’s wand out of her grasp. He twisted around onto his back and cast a flimsy _protego_ just as another curse erupted towards him.

Riddle advanced, sweeping his wand upwards in a grand flourish as wisps of fire began to gather around him.

There’s no time to think, only to act, but if there’s one thing that Harry could always rely on, it’s his instincts. Flipping onto his side, he let the momentum carry him as he rolled and lashed out with his borrowed wand.

The result was more of an outburst of magic than an actual spell but it did the job. A ripple of dust flew up and Riddle instinctively raised his arms to shield his face. The fires flickered out around him and Harry was up on his feet in seconds.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

Nothing happened. For a moment, he and Riddle stared at each other in surprise. Then, cursing, he tossed the wand back at the girl’s side and backed away.

Riddle laughed. “Oh, Harry, haven’t you learned? Never trust another’s wand.”

For every step he took back, Riddle advanced by one. Harry braced himself, but before either of them can move, a guttural growl rippled from across the clearing.

They froze and turned as one. Harry blanched. A dark shape rose, yellow eyes glimmering in the dark. Barely recognizable with its back to them, but Harry had dealt with them enough to know one when he saw one. _A werewolf_.

“How-” he stammered, then, his eyes darted back frantically, “the girl!”

“That _is_ the girl!” Riddle hissed, turning his wand on the werewolf.

Sure enough, the spot where the girl had lain was bare. 

Riddle drew his arm back, and Harry's eyes widened, “dont't-”

Too late. A jet of purple fizzled towards the creature, bouncing harmlessly off its shoulder. Sharp eyes snapped to them, its teeth shining under the glow of the moon. 

“Run!” Harry turned and bolted, grabbing Riddle’s slackened arm as he passed him.

Riddle stumbled but righted himself, keeping up with Harry’s pace. “That was-”

“A werewolf? Yes! Now shut up and run!”

“Stop it, Haemon, we could take it-”

Harry snorted. “No, we can’t! They’re impervious to most spells-”

“As if you’ve fought one before-”

“Shut up and run!”

They leapt over a rotting log, shoes slapping against the muddied ground. Grunts and growls followed them, and Harry ploughed forward, knowing that there’s no time to glance back.

“Even if spells don’t work, surely fiendfyre-”

“We’re in a bloody forest!” Harry said hysterically. “You’ll sooner kill us all!”

He tightened his hold as Riddle attempted to jerk his arm loose. “Let me go!”

Something crashed several steps away. Harry swore and, making a split-second decision, threw both himself and Riddle downwards into a niche between the roots of a large tree. Riddle glared up at him, but Harry clamped a hand over his mouth before he could speak. The rustling grew nearer and another growl rumbled from behind them.

No, no, no, no, no-

As if sensing his panic, the snarls quickened. Harry needed something, anything-

Just as he thought that, something cool draped over his shoulders in a featherlight touch. His hands flew up instinctively, clutching tight to the familiar softness of his invisibility cloak. Only the slight widening of Riddle's eyes and a muffled exclamation told him that it wasn't a hallucination.

Something crashed behind them and the ground shook. Right. Survival first, questions, later.

Harry quickly pulled the cloak over them. It was no easy task manoeuvring them so that they both fit under it. Riddle’s knees were digging uncomfortably into his side and his arms were straining with the effort of keeping himself balanced and still. His elbow pressed down sharply into Riddle’s shoulder, but thankfully Riddle seemed to realize the precarious situation that they’re in and finally decided to shut up.

A branch snapped just overhead. Harry saw Riddle’s eyes narrow at the sight of something over his shoulder, and he held himself still. Time dragged on, excruciatingly slow. His fingers were clenched, digging into the ground, the dirt sticky on his hands.

Eventually, the growls grew distant, then quieted altogether. Riddle relaxed and Harry slumped down, muscles aching from having to remain upright in such a position for so long. He breathed in deep, heart pounding and light-headed from the adrenaline. 

Riddle shifted beneath him and he stiffened, only just realizing how close they were. Harry was practically on top of him and they were pressed together, legs entwined. Riddle was staring at him, brows furrowed and a glint in his eyes. Suddenly Riddle shifted forward and reached out a hand towards his face. He flinched back. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but instead of whatever it was, Riddle’s hand goes past his shoulder and brushed against the invisibility cloak that was still covering them.

“Why, you’re just full of surprises, _Harry_ ,” Riddle said, right next to his ear.

His hair stood on end and he scrambled back, trying unsuccessfully to mask a full-bodied shiver. Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach. Even in the dim lighting, he could see Riddle’s smirk. “I said,” he gritted out, “not to call me that.”

“Touchy,” Riddle says, twirling a wand between his fingers. One that was not his own.

Their eyes move to it at the same time. Riddle looked surprised, as if he'd forgotten he was even holding it. Harry pounced forward while Riddle shuffled back. But something caught on his foot and he tripped, head coming down hard against Riddle’s chest. He hurriedly pushed himself up, shifting his weight onto his elbows-

“Fuck,” Riddle suddenly snarled and shoved him off, face contorting in pain as he doubled over, hands covering the region between his legs.

Harry's anger puttered off and died, replaced by mortification. “Shit, I’m sorry-” he said instinctively, wincing in sympathy, but as he leant backwards, the earth buckled. Eyes snapping up to meet Riddle's, he barely had time to gasp before the ground gave way beneath them.

It was like falling through the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow again. They slid down an uneven slope in a tangle of limbs. Harry coughed as dirt rained down and barely managed to brace himself as he hit solid ground, rolling onto his back. Riddle slammed down beside him, groaning. Ignoring the pain, Harry crawled forward and wrestled his wand out of Riddle’s hold.

Riddle didn’t protest. Instead, he pushed himself up and wiped the dirt from his face with his sleeve, deservedly murderous.

“Haemon. I swear to _god_ -”

“Hey, it’s not my fault! How was I supposed to know that this would happen?”

Harry ran a hand over his face and suddenly there’s a stickiness to his palm, on his fingers, a stickiness under his shoes when he tried to take a step back.

Unwittingly, his eyes swept across the darkened expanse of the tunnel, noting the white strands drifting from above, the cobwebs stretching across the corners, and the crunching of bones beneath his feet. And suddenly, he realized that the ‘ground’ on which they had lain before wasn’t the ground at all, but thick layers of web.

Something moved in the darkness around them. _Many_ somethings.

His eyes widened and he saw his shock echoed on Riddle’s face.

“If we survive this,” Riddle hissed through clenched teeth, “I’m going to _end_ you.”


End file.
